IS  Mm- 


rt 


IS  THIS  IRELAND? 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SQUINTING  AVINT- 
IXDWS.  By  Brinsley  MacNamara.  Bren- 
tano's.  $1.50  net. 

IN  an  interesting  "  Prefatory  Note  "  to 
his  novel  "  The  Valley  of  the  Squint- 
ing Windows,"  Brinsley  MacK  Tiara 
declares  his  belief  that  the  time  has  come 
for  the  realistic,  as  opposed  to  the  senti- 
mental and  pscudo- realistic,  novel  of  Ire- 
land. He  says,  too,  that  the  country  as  a 
whole  did  not  dislike  his  picture  of  Irish 
life  nor  find  it  untrue,  though  the  people  o* 
the  particular  district  in  which  the  scene 
was  laid  were  highly  indignant.  The  latter 
fact  is  easy  to  understand,  and  all  the  eas- 
ier because  the  book  does  seem  to  bear  the 
stamp  of  truth;  for  a  more  utterly  despi- 
cable set  of  people  than  those  inhabiting 
"  The  Valley  of  the  Squinting  Windows  " 
it  would  be  difficult  to  find.  With  scarcely 
an  exception  they  are  mean,  envious,  bac-k- 
biting,  narrow-minded,  and  foul-minded, 
rejoicing  heartily  over  any  evil  which  may 
chance  to  befall  their  neighbors,  their  prin- 
cipal passion  the  lowest,  cheapest  sort  of 
curiosity.  The  men  are  drunkards,  with- 
out sign  or  vestige  of  honor  or  generosity 
or  morality;  the  women  possess  a  certain 
degree  of  sex  morality,  but  only  because  to 
lose  it  would  give  their  neighbors  a  wel-  j 
come  opportunity  to  jeer  at  them.  Their 
religion  is  nothing  bul  a  mixture  of  bigotry 
and  superstition,  and  Father  O'Kcef;'' 
parish  priest,  who  <  :  wor- 

ships Mammon  with  single-hearted  devo- 
tion, has  no  more  conscience  than  his  dis- 
gusting parishioners. 

Among  the  most  devout  of  these  parish- 
ioners "is  a    Mrs.    Brennan.   a  very   impor- 
tant character  in  the  book,  and  an  admira- 
bly drawn  one.     As  a  gin  .  she 
had    tried    to    inveigle    a    rich    f 
marrying  her,  simply  an.i 
was   rich.      The   result   of   her  manoeuvres 
was    an    illegitimate    child,     v,  < 
peared  immediately  after  its  birth,  and  dis- 
grace for   Nan   Byrne— whereat    the   neigh- 


• 


and  presently  comes  back  to  iivo  there.  - 
When  the  lx)ok  opens  she  is  a  hard-work- 
ins'  woman  with  a  drunken  husband,  aJl  her 
ambitions  centred  on  the  son,  John  Bren- 
dan, whom  she  loves  as  the  means  where- 
by she  hopes  to  exalt  herself  alx>ve  the 
other  residents  of  the  Valley.  This  is  to 
!*>  achieved  by  making  him  a  priest,  and 
the  first  chapter  shows  her  looking  for- 
ward to  his  return  home  on  a  vacation 
from  the  charity  college  in  Kngland  where 
he  is  getting  his  training.  What  the  Val- 
ley and  its  inhabitants  do  to  John  Brennan, 
and  the  destruction  they  presently  bring 
upon  him,  form  the  main  theme  of  the 
novel.  Nor  is  he  the  only  one  the  Valley 
destroys,  body  and  soul.  Myles  Shannon, 
whose  vengeful  plot  has  so  much  to  do  with 
the  working  out  of  the  tragedy,  migl;i 
been  a  good  man  but  for  the  Valley's  curi- 
osity and  lack  of  any  sense  of  decency,  let 
atone  honor;  Ulick  Shannon,  his  IK- 

•>'    entirely   without    traces   of   good, 
debauchee    though    he    was,    and    K 
Kerr,   the  young  schoolmistress.    A\ 
renuer's    sympathy   and    holds    iv    from    her 
first    forlorn   appearance    until    t he- 
drives  her  forth  in  disgrace. 

The  book  is  written  in  i 
times  too  leisure!;, 

is  good,  the  descriptions  are  many  of  them 
well  done,  the  dialogue  is  natural,  and  the 
characters  real  people,  albeit  extremely  ob- 
jectionable ones.  The  climax  by  the  lake 
lacks  something  of  the  tense  dramatic  force 
it  ought  to  have,  but  the  effect  of  the  ma- 
lignant power  of  the  Valley,  a  power  as 
pervasive  and  insidious  as  some  vile  mias- 
ma, is  excellently  depicted.  Although 
there  are  moments  -when  it  drags  more 
than  a  little,  the  book  is  interesting.  And 
it  thoroughly  convinces  the  reader  that  if 
this  be  a  true  picture  of  the  Irish,  then 
there  are  few  people  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  more  loathsome,  more  completely 
without  redeeming  qualities,  than  those 
over  whom  writers  have  sentimentalized  *o 
Ions. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE 
SQUINTING  WINDOWS 


BY 

BRINSLEY  MAcNAMARA 


NEW  YORK 

BRENTANO'S 

1919 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
BRENT  ANO'S 

All  rights  rettrved 


Go 

ONE  WHO  WAITED 
FOR  THIS  STORY 


2060918 


And  the  Lord  spake  unto  Moses  saying: 
Speak  unto  Aaron  saying  whosoever  he  be  of  thy  seed 
in  their  generations  that  hath  any  blemish  let  him  not 
approach  to  offer  the  bread  of  his  God. 

LEVITICUS  xxi.  16-17. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

In  the  parlor,  as  they  call  it,  or  best  room  of  every 
Irish  farmhouse,  one  may  come  upon  a  certain  number 
of  books  that  are  never  read,  laid  there  in  lonely  re- 
pose upon  the  big  square  table  on  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
A  novel  entitled  ' '  Knocknagow ' '  is  almost  always  certain 
to  be  amongst  them,  yet  scarcely  as  the  result  of  selec- 
tion, although  its  constant  occurrence  cannot  be  consid- 
ered purely  accidental.  There  must  lurk  an  explanation 
somewhere  about  these  quiet  Irish  houses  connecting  the 
very  atmosphere  with  "Knocknagow"  A  stranger, 
thinking  of  some  of  the  great  books  of  the  world,  would 
almost  feel  inclined  to  believe  that  this  story  of  the  quiet 
homesteads  of  Ireland  must  be  one  of  them,  a  book  full 
of  inspiration  and  truth  and  beauty,  a  story  sprung  from 
the  bleeding  realities  which  were  before  the  present  com- 
fort of  these  homes.  Yet  for  all  the  expectations  which 
might  be  raised  up  in  one  by  this  most  popular,  this 
typical  Irish  novel,  it  is  most  certainly  the  book  with 
which  the  new  Irish  novelist  would  endeavor  to  contrast 
his  own.  For  he  would  be  writing  of  life,  as  the  modern 
novelist's  art  is  essentially  a  realistic  one,  and  not  of 
the  queer,  distant,  half  pleasing,  half  saddening  thing 
which  could  make  one  Irish  farmer's  daughter  say  to 
another  at  any  time  within  the  past  forty  years : 

"And  you'd  often  see  things  happening  nearly  in  real 
life  like  in  '  Knocknagow. '  Now  wouldn  't  you  ? ' ' 

Nearer  by  a  long  way  than  Charles  Joseph  Kickham 
ix 


x  PREFATORY  NOTE 

to  what  the  Irish  novelist  should  have  been  was  William 
Carleton  in  his  great,  gloomy,  melodramatic  stories  of 
the  land.  He  was  prevented  by  the  agrarian  obsession 
of  his  time  from  having  the  clear  vision  and  wide  pity, 
in  keeping  with  his  vehemence,  which  might  have  made 
him  the  Irish  Balzac. 

Even  in  Ireland  Lever  and  Lover  have  become  un- 
popular. They  are  read  only  by  Englishmen  who  still 
try  to  perpetuate  their  comic  convention  when  they  write 
newspaper  articles  about  Ireland. 

As  with  Kickham,  largely  in  his  treatment  of  the  Irish 
peasant,  Gerald  Griffin  in  "The  Collegians"  did  not 
succeed  in  giving  his  Irish  middle  or  "strong  farmer" 
class  characters  the  spiritual  energy  so  necessary  to  the 
literary  subject. 

Here  are  five  writers  then,  who  included  in  their  work 
such  exact  opposites  as  saints  and  sinners,  heroes  and 
omadhanns,  earnest  passionate  men  and  broths  of  bhoys. 
And  somehow  between  them,  between  those  who  wrote  to 
degrade  us  and  those  who  have  idealized  us,  the  real 
Irishman  did  not  come  to  be  set  down.  From  its  fiction, 
reality  was  absent,  as  from  most  other  aspects  of  Irish 
life. 

To  a  certain  extent  the  realistic  method  has  been  em- 
ployed by  the  dramatists  of  the  Irish  Literary  Move- 
ment, but  necessarily  limited  by  the  scope  and  conven- 
tions of  the  stage  and  by  the  narrower  appeal  of  the 
spoken  word  in  the  mouth  of  an  actor.  The  stage,  too, 
has  a  way  of  developing  cults  and  conventions  and  of  its 
very  nature  must  display  a  certain  amount  of  artificial- 
ity, even  in  the  handling  of  realistic  material.  Thus 
comes  a  sudden  stagnation,  a  sudden  completion  always 


PREFATORY  NOTE  xi 

of  a  literary  movement  developed  mostly  upon  the  dra- 
matic side,  as  has  come  upon  the  work  of  the  Abbey 
Theater. 

It  appears  rather  accidental,  but  perhaps  on  the  whole 
to  its  benefit,  that  the  dramatic  form  should  have  been 
adopted  by  J.  M.  Synge  and  not  the  epical  form  of  the 
novel.  Synge  fell  with  a  lash  of  surprise  upon  the  Ire- 
land of  his  time,  for  the  Irish  play  had  been  as  fully 
degraded  as  the  Irish  novel.  Furthermore  the  shock  of 
his  genius  created  an  opportunity  which  made  possible 
the  realistic  Irish  novelist.  At  the  Abbey  Theater  they 
performed  plays  dealing  with  subjects  which  no  Irish 
novelist,  thinking  of  a  public,  would  have  dreamt  of 
handling.  Somehow  their  plays  have  come  to  be  known 
and  accepted  throughout  Ireland.  Thus  a  reading  pub- 
lic for  this  realistic  Irish  novel  has  been  slowly  created 
and  the  urge  to  write  like  this  has  come  to  many  story- 
tellers. 

Of  necessity,  as  part  of  the  reaction  from  the  work  of 
the  feeble  masters  we  have  known,  the  first  examples 
of  the  new  Irish  novel  were  bound  to  be  a  little  savage 
and  pitiless.  In  former  pictures  of  Irish  life  there  was 
heavy  labor  always  to  give  us  the  shade  at  the  expense 
of  the  light,  in  fact  at  the  expense  of  the  truth  which 
is  life  itself.  In  Ireland  the  protest  of  the  realist  is  not 
so  much  against  Romanticism  as  against  an  attempt  made 
to  place  before  us  a  pseudo-realism.  According  as  the 
Irish  people  resign  themselves  to  the  fact  that  this  is  not 
a  thing  which  should  not  be  done,  the  work  of  the  Irish 
realist  will  approximate  more  nearly  to  the  quality  of 
the  Russian  novelists,  in  which  there  are  neither  exag- 
gerations of  Light  nor  of  Shade,  but  a  picture  of  life  all 


xii  PREFATORY  NOTE 

gray  and  quiet,  and  brightened  only  by  the  beauty  of 
tragic  reality. 

It  leaves  room  for  interesting  speculation,  that  at  a 
time  of  political  chaos,  at  a  time  when  in  Ireland  there 
is  a  great  coming  and  going  of  politicians  of  all  brands, 
dreamers,  sages  and  mystics,  the  decline  of  the  Irish  Lit- 
erary Movement  on  its  dramatic  side  should  have  given 
the  realistic  Irish  novelist  his  opportunity  to  appear. 
The  urgent  necessity  of  reality  in  Irish  life  at  the  mo- 
ment fills  one  with  the  thought  that  a  school  of  Irish 
realists  might  have  brought  finer  things  to  the  heart  of 
Ireland  than  the  Hy  Brazil  of  the  politicians. 

The  function  of  the  Irish  novelist  to  evoke  reality  has 
been  proved  in  the  case  of  "  The  Valley  of  the  Squinting 
Windows. ' '  Upon  its  appearance  the  people  of  that  part 
of  Ireland  with  whom  I  deal  in  my  writings  became 
highly  incensed.  They  burned  my  book  after  the  best 
medieval  fashion  and  resorted  to  acts  of  healthy  vio- 
lence. The  romantic  period  seemed  to  have  been  cut  out 
of  their  lives  and  they  were  full  of  life  again.  The  story 
of  my  story  became  widely  exaggerated  through  gradu- 
ally increasing  venom  and  my  book,  which  had  been  well 
received  by  the  official  Irish  Press, — whose  reviewers 
generally  read  the  books  they  write  about — was  supposed 
by  some  of  my  own  people  to  contain  the  most  frightful 
things.  To  the  peasant  mind,  fed  so  long  upon  unreal 
tales  of  itself,  the  thing  I  had  done  became  identified 
after  the  most  incongruous  fashion  and  very  curiously 
with  an  aspect  of  the  very  literary  association  from 
which  I  had  sprung.  Language  out  of  Synge's  "  Play- 
boy of  the  Western  World"  came  to  my  ears  from  eyery 
side  during  the  days  in  which  I  was  made  to  suffer  for 


PREFATORY  NOTE  xiii 

having  written  ' '  The  Valley  of  the  Squinting  Windows. ' ' 
' '  And  saving  your  presence,  sir,  are  you  the  man  that 
killed  your  father  ? ' ' 
"I  am,  God  help  me!" 

"Well  then,  my  thousand  blessings  to  you!" 
The  country  as  a  whole  did  not  dislike  my  picture  of 
Irish  life  or  say  it  was  untrue.  It  was  only  the  particu- 
lar section  of  life  which  was  pictured  that  still  asserted 
its  right  to  the  consolation  of  romantic  treatment,  but  in 
its  very  attempt  to  retain  romance  in  theory  it  became 
realistic  in  practise.  It  did  exactly  what  it  should  have 
done  a  great  many  years  ago  with  the  kind  of  books  from 
which  it  drew  a  certain  poisonous  comfort  towards  its 
own  intellectual  and  political  enslavement.  The  rest  of 
Ireland  was  amused  by  the  performance  of  those  who 
did  not  think,  with  Mr.  Yeats,  that  romantic  Ireland  was 
dead  and  gone.  The  realist  had  begun  to  evoke  reality 
and  no  longer  did  a  great  screech  sound  through  the  land 
that  this  kind  of  thing  should  not  be  done.  A  change 
had  come,  by  miraculous  coincidence,  upon  the  soul  of 
Ireland.  It  was  not  afraid  of  realism  now, — for  it  had 
faced  the  tragic  reality  of  the  travail  which  comes  be- 
fore a  healthy  national  consciousness  can  be  born.  No 
longer  would  the  realist  be  described  in  his  own  country 
as  merely  a  morbid  scoundrel  or  an  enemy  of  the  Irish 
people.  They  would  not  need  again  the  solace  of  the 
sentimental  novelist  for  all  the  offenses  of  the  carica- 
turists in  Irish  fiction,  because,  with  the  wider  and 
clearer  vision  of  their  own  souls  fully  realized,  had  they 
already  begun  to  look  out  upon  the  world. 

BRINSLEY  MACNAMARA. 
Dublin,  March  1st,  1919. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE 
SQUINTING  WINDOWS 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SQUINTING 
WINDOWS 

CHAPTER  I 

MBS.  BRENNAN  took  her  seat  again  at  the  sewing- 
machine  by  the  window.  She  sighed  as  she  turned 
her  tired  eyes  in  search  of  some  inducement  to  solace 
down  the  white  road  through  the  valley  of  Tullahanogue. 
The  day  was  already  bright  above  the  fields  and  groups 
of  children  were  beginning  to  pass  through  the  morning 
on  their  way  to  school.  Mrs.  Brennan  beheld  their 
passage,  yet  now  as  always  she  seemed  to  miss  the  small 
beauty  of  the  little  pageant. 

' '  God  help  them,  the  poor  little  things ! ' '  she  condoled 
to  herself,  "and  may  He  enlighten  the  unfortunate 
parents  who  send  them  to  that  quare,  ould,  ignorant  pair, 
Master  Donnellan  and  Mrs.  "Wyse,  the  mistress.  Musha, 
sure  they're  no  teachers!" 

From  this  it  might  seem  that  Mrs.  Brennan,  the  dress- 
maker of  the  valley  and  one  well  entitled  to  be  giving 
out  an  opinion,  did  not  think  very  highly  of  National 
Education.  Yet  it  was  not  true  that  she  failed  to  regard 
the  lofty  fact  of  education  with  all  a  peasant's  stupid 
reverence,  for  was  she  not  the  mother  of  John  Brennan, 
who  was  now  preparing  for  the  priesthood  at  a  grand 
college  in  England?  A  priest,  mind  you!  That  was 
what  you  might  call  something  for  a  woman  to  be! 
1 


2     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

The  pride  of  her  motherhood  struck  a  high  and  re- 
sounding note  in  the  life  of  the  valley.  Furthermore,  it 
gave  her  authority  to  assert  herself  as  a  woman  of  re- 
markable standing  amongst  the  people.  She  devoted  her 
prerogative  to  the  advancement  of  the  Catholic  Church. 
She  manifested  herself  as  one  intensely  interested  in  its 
welfare.  There  was  no  cheap  religious  periodical,  from 
The  Catholic  Times  to  The  Messenger,  that  she  did  not 
regularly  purchase.  All  these  she  read  to  her  husband, 
Ned  Brennan,  in  the  long  quiet  evenings  after  the  man- 
ner of  one  discharging  a  religious  duty. 

This  was  a  curious  side  of  her.  She  kept  him  in  com- 
fort and  in  ease,  and  yet  when  his  body  had  been  con- 
tented she  must  needs  apply  herself  to  the  welfare  of  his 
soul.  For,  although  he  spent  many  a  penny  of  her 
money  in  the  village  of  Garradrimna,  was  he  not  the 
father  of  John  Brennan,  who  was  going  to  be  a  priest 
of  God?  She  forgave  him  everything  on  this  account, 
even  the  coarse  and  blasphemous  expressions  he  continu- 
ally let  fly  from  his  mouth  the  while  she  read  for  him 
the  most  holy  stories  by  Jesuit  Fathers. 

Just  now  she  had  given  him  two  shillings  with  which 
to  entertain  himself.  He  had  threatened  to  strike  her 
in  the  event  of  her  refusal.  .  .  .  That  was  why  she  had 
been  sighing  and  why  the  tears  were  now  creeping  into 
her  great  tired  eyes  as  she  began  to  set  her  machine  in 
motion  for  the  tasks  of  the  day.  Dear,  dear,  wasn't  he 
the  cruel,  hard  man?  .  .  .  Yet  beyond  all  this  thought 
of  him  was  her  bright  dream  of  the  day  when,  with  the 
few  pounds  she  had  saved  so  secretly  from  the  wide  grasp 
of  his  thirst,  she  must  fit  him  out  in  a  rich  suit  of  black 
and  go  by  his  side  proudly  to  attend  the  ordination  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS    3 

their  son  John.  It  was  because  she  so  dearly  loved  her 
dream  that  she  bore  him  with  immense  patience. 

Also  it  was  because  she  had  been  thinking  of  that 
grand  day  and  of  the  descending  splendor  of  her  son 
that  she  now  commented  so  strongly  upon  the  passage 
of  the  children  to  school.  She  had  spoken  bitterly  to 
her  own  heart,  but  in  that  heart  of  hers  she  was  a  bitter 
woman. 

This  was  such  a  sunny,  lovely  morning.  It  was  the 
day  of  the  June  Races  in  the  town  of  Mullaghowen,  and 
most  of  the  valley-dwellers  had  gone  there.  The  wind- 
ing, dusty  road  through  Tullahanogue  was  a  long  lane 
of  silence  amid  the  sunlight.  It  appeared  as  an  avenue 
to  the  Palace  of  Dreams.  So  it  was  not  at  all  strange 
that  Mrs.  Brennan  was  dreaming  forward  into  the  future 
and  filling  her  mind  with  fancies  of  the  past.  She  was 
remembering  herself  as  Nan  Byrne,  the  prettiest  girl  in 
the  valley.  This  was  no  illusion  of  idle  vanity,  for  was 
there  not  an  old  daguerreotype  in  an  album  on  the  table 
behind  her  at  this  very  moment  to  prove  that  beauty 
had  been  hers?  And  she  had  been  ruined  because  of 
that  proud  beauty.  It  was  curious  to  think  how  her 
sister  and  she  had  both  gone  the  same  way.  .  .  .  The 
period  of  a  generation  had  passed  since  the  calamity 
had  fallen  upon  them  almost  simultaneously.  It  was 
the  greatest  scandal  that  had  ever  happened  in  these 
parts.  The  holy  priest,  whose  bones  were  now  molder- 
ing  beneath  the  sanctuary  of  the  chapel,  had  said  hard 
words  of  her.  From  the  altar  of  God  he  had  spoken 
his  pity  of  her  father,  and  said  that  she  was  a  bad 
woman. 

"May  God  strengthen  him,  for  this  is  the  bitter  bur- 


4    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

den  to  bear.  Philip  Byrne  is  a  decent  man  for  all  his 
daughter  Nan  is  a  woman  of  shame.  I  pray  you  avoid 
her  every  one  who  has  the  trace  of  God's  purity  in  his 
heart.  Let  you  go  not  into  that  house  which  she  has 
made  an  abode  of  lust,  nor  allow  the  fair  name  of  your 
own  house  to  be  blemished  by  the  contamination  of  her 
presence  within  its  walls." 

Yes,  it  was  true  that  all  this  had  been  said  of  her  by 
the  holy  father,  and  in  the  very  spot  beneath  which  his 
bones  were  now  at  rest.  They  were  the  hard  words 
surely  to  have  issued  from  the  lips  of  God's  annointed. 
Even  in  the  fugitive  remembrance  of  them  now  they 
seemed  to  have  left  red  marks  like  whip-lash  weals 
across  her  soul.  The  burning  hurt  of  them  drove  her 
deeper  into  remembrance.  She  had  already  come  to  the 
full  development  of  her  charms  when  her  ambition  had 
also  appeared.  It  was,  in  short,  to  effect  the  "catch" 
of  one  of  the  strong  farmers  of  the  valley.  She  entered 
into  conspiracy  with  her  sister  and,  together,  they  laid 
their  plans.  Henry  Shannon  was  the  one  upon  whom 
she  had  set  her  eye  and  Loughlin  Mulvey  the  one  her 
sister  Bridget  had  begun  to  desire.  They  were  both 
men  of  family  and  substance,  and  hard  drinkers  after 
the  fashion  of  the  fields.  They  often  called  at  the  house 
to  see  the  sisters.  Philip  Byrne,  whose  occupation  as 
head-groom  at  the  stables  of  the  Moores  of  Garradrimna 
often  took  him  away  from  Ireland,  would  always  be 
absent  during  those  visitations.  But  their  mother  would 
be  there,  Mrs.  Abigail  Byrne,  ambitious  for  her  daugh- 
ters, in  great  style.  It  was  never  known  to  happen  that 
either  of  the  strong  farmers  called  to  the  house  without 
a  bottle  of  whiskey.  Mrs.  Byrne  always  looked  favor- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS    5 

ably  upon  them  for  their  high  decency,  and  the  whiskey 
was  good  whiskey. 

Here  in  this  very  room  where  she  now  sat  remember- 
ing it  all  there  had  been  such  scenes!  Her  hair  had 
been  so  thick  and  brown  and  there  had  been  a  rare  bloom 
upon  her  skin  as  she  had  sat  here  alone  with  Henry 
Shannon,  talking  with  him  of  queer  things  and  kissing 
his  dark,  handsome  face.  And  all  through  those  far,  by- 
gone times  she  used  to  be  thinking  of  his  grand  house 
and  of  his  broad  fields  and  the  way  she  would  one  day 
assert  herself  in  the  joy  of  such  possessions  over  her  less 
fortunate  sisters  of  the  valley.  Yet,  ever  mixed  with 
her  bright  pieces  of  imagination,  there  had  been  such 
torturing  doubts.  .  .  .  Her  sister  Bridget  had  always 
been  so  certain  of  her  prey. 

There  had  been  times  when  Henry  Shannon  spent  the 
night  in  the  house.  In  those  nights  had  been  laid  the 
foundations  of  her  shame.  .  .  .  Very,  very  clearly  did 
she  remember  the  sickening,  dreadful  morning  she  had 
come  to  her  mother  with  the  story  that  she  was  going  to 
have  a  child.  How  angry  the  elder  woman  had  been,  so 
lit  within  her  all  the  wild  instincts  of  the  female  against 
the  betrayer  of  her  sex?  Why  had  she  gone  so  far? 
Why  had  she  not  played  her  cards  like  her  sister? 
There  was  no  fear  of  her  yet  although  she  had  got  a 
proper  hold  of  Loughlin  Mulvey.  .  .  .  What  was  she  to 
do  at  all?  She  who  had  had  great  ambitions  was  to 
become  lower  than  the  lowest  in  the  valley. 

Yet  the  three  of  them  had  conferred  together,  for  all 
the  others  were  so  angry  with  her  because  of  her  disas- 
trous condition  into  which  she  had  allowed  herself  to 
slip  without  having  first  made  certain  of  Henry  Shan- 


6    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

non.  The  only  course  left  now  was  to  "make  a  show" 
of  him  if  he  could  not  see  his  way  to  marry  her. 

She  could  now  remember  every  line  of  the  angry, 
misspelled  letter  she  had  sent  to  her  whilom  lover,  and 
how  it  had  brought  him  to  the  house  in  a  mood  of 
drunken  repentance.  He  presented  her  with  material 
for  a  new  dress  on  the  very  same  night,  and,  as  she 
laughed  and  cried  over  it  in  turn,  she  though  how  very 
curious  it  was  that  he  should  wish  to  see  her  figure  richly 
adorned  when  already  it  had  begun  to  put  on  those  signs 
of  disfigurement  which  announce  the  coming  of  a  child. 
But  he  was  very,  very  kind,  and  all  suspicion  fell  away 
from  her.  Before  he  went  he  whispered  an  invitation 
to  spend  a  few  days  with  him  in  Dublin.  .  .  .  What  did 
it  matter  now,  and  it  was  so  kind  of  him  to  ask  her? 
It  showed  what  was  in  his  mind,  and  therefore  no  talk 
of  marriage  passed  between  them.  It  did  not  seem 
necessary. 

Then  had  followed  quickly  those  lovely  days  in  Dub- 
lin, she  stopping  with  him  as  "Mrs.  Henry  Shannon"  at 
a  grand  hotel.  He  had  given  her  a  wedding-ring,  but 
while  it  remained  upon  her  finger  it  was  ever  the  little 
accusing  symbol,  filling  her  with  an  intense  conviction  of 
her  sin. 

This  great  adventure  had  marked  the  beginning  of 
her  acquaintance  with  the  world  beyond  the  valley,  and, 
even  now,  through  the  gloom  of  her  mood,  she  could  re- 
member it  with  a  certain  amount  of  gladness  coming 
back  to  her  mind.  But  it  was  queer  that  the  brighest 
moment  of  her  life  should  also  have  been  the  moment  of 
darkest  disaster.  .  .  .  She  re-created  the  slight  incidents 
of  their  quarrel.  It  was  so  strange  of  him  after  all  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS    7 

grand  kindness  he  had  just  been  showing  her.  .  .  .  She 
had  returned  to  the  valley  alone  and  with  her  disgrace 
already  beginning  to  be  heavy  upon  her.  .  .  .  She  never 
saw  Henry  Shannon  or  spoke  with  him  again.  When 
she  wrote  referring  distantly  to  their  approaching  mar- 
riage and  making  mention  of  the  wedding-ring,  the  re- 
ply came  back  from  Mr.  Robinson,  the  solicitor  in  Garra- 
drirnua,  who  was  his  cousin  and  sporting  companion. 
She  knew  how  they  had  already  begun  to  talk  of  her  in 
the  valley  for  having  gone  off  to  Dublin  with  Henry 
Shannon,  and  now,  when  an  ugly  word  to  describe  her 
appeared  there  black  and  plain  in  the  solicitor's  letter, 
she  felt,  in  blind  shame,  that  the  visit  to  Dublin  had 
been  planned  to  ruin  her.  The  air  of  the  valley  seemed 
full  of  whispers  to  tell  her  that  she  had  done  a  mon- 
strous thing.  Maybe  they  could  give  her  jail  for  hav- 
ing done  a  thing  like  that,  and  she  knew  well  that  Henry 
Shannon's  people  would  stop  at  nothing  to  destroy  her, 
for  they  were  a  dark,  spiteful  crew.  They  were  rich 
and  powerful,  with  lawyers  in  the  family,  and  what 
chance  would  she  have  in  law  now  that  every  one  was 
turned  against  her.  So  that  night  she  went  out  when 
it  was  very  dark  and  threw  away  the  wedding-ring. 
The  small,  sad  act  appeared  as  the  renunciation  of  her 
great  ambition. 

She  remembered  with  a  surpassing  clearness  the  wide 
desolation  of  the  time  that  followed.  Loughlin  Mulvey 
had  been  compelled  to  marry  her  sister  Bridget  because 
he  had  not  been  clever  enough  to  effect  a  loophole  of 
escape  like  Henry  Shannon.  Already  three  mouths 
after  the  marriage  (bit  by  bit  was  she  now  living  the 
past  again)  the  child  had  been  born  to  Bridget,  and  now 


8    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

she  herself  was  waiting  for  the  birth  of  her  child.  .  .  . 
Indeed  Bridget  need  not  have  been  so  angry. 

She  had  been  delirious  and  upon  the  brink  of  death, 
and  when,  at  last,  she  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  real- 
ize the  sharpness  of  her  mother's  tongue  once  more  the 
child  had  disappeared.  She  had  escaped  to  England 
with  all  that  was  left  of  her  beauty.  There  she  had  met 
Ned  Brennan,  and  there  had  her  son  John  Brennan  been 
born.  For  a  short  while  she  had  known  happiness. 
Ned  was  rough,  but  in  his  very  strength  there  was  a 
sense  of  security  and  protection  which  made  him  bear- 
able. And  there  was  little  John.  He  was  not  a  bit  like 
her  short,  wild  impression  of  the  other  little  child.  Her 
disgrace  had  been  the  means  of  bringing  Philip  Byrne 
to  his  grave;  and,  after  six  or  seven  years,  her  mother 
had  died,  and  she  had  returned  to  the  valley  of  Tulla- 
hanogue.  It  was  queer  that,  with  all  her  early  knowl- 
edge of  the  people  of  the  valley,  she  had  never  thought 
it  possible  that  some  of  them  would  one  day  impart  to 
him  the  terrible  secret  she  had  concealed  so  well  while 
acting  the  ingenuous  maiden  before  his  eyes. 

Yet  they  were  not  settled  a  month  at  the  cottage  in 
the  valley  when  Ned  came  from  Garradrimna  one  night 
a  changed  man.  Larry  Cully,  a  loafer  of  the  village, 
had  attacked  him  with  the  whole  story.  .  .  .  Was  this 
the  kind  of  people  among  whom  she  had  brought  him  to 
live,  and  was  this  a  fact  about  her?  She  confessed  her 
share,  but,  illtreat  her  how  he  would,  she  could  not  tell 
him  what  had  been  done  with  the  child. 

Henceforth  he  was  so  different,  settling  gradually 
into  his  present  condition.  He  could  not  go  about  mak- 
ing inquiries  as  to  the  past  of  his  wife,  and  the  people 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS    9 

of  the  valley,  gloating  over  his  condition,  took  no  pains 
to  ease  his  mind.  It  was  more  interesting  to  see  him 
torture  himself  with  suspicion.  They  hardly  fancied  she 
had  told  him  all.  It  was  grand  to  see  him  drinking  in 
his  endeavors  to  forget  the  things  he  must  needs  be 
thinking  of. 

Thus  had  Mrs.  Brennan  lived  with  her  husband  for 
eighteen  years,  and  no  other  child  had  been  born  to 
them.  His  original  occupation  of  plumber's  laborer 
found  no  opportunity  for  its  exercise  in  the  valley,  but 
he  sometimes  lime-washed  stables  and  mended  roofs  and 
gutters.  For  the  most  part,  however,  she  kept  him 
through  her  labor  at  the  machine. 

Her  story  was  not  without  its  turn  of  pathos,  for  it 
was  strange  to  think  of  her  reading  the  holy  books  to 
him  in  the  long,  quiet  evenings  all  the  while  he  despised 
her  for  what  she  had  been  with  a  hatred  that  all  the 
magnanimous  examples  of  religion  could  not  remove. 

She  was  thinking  over  it  all  now,  and  so  keenly,  for 
he  had  just  threatened  to  strike  her  again.  Eighteen 
years  had  not  removed  from  his  mind  the  full  and  bitter 
realization  of  her  sin.  .  .  .  They  were  both  beginning  to 
grow  gray,  and  her  living  atonement  for  what  she  had 
been,  her  son  John  who  was  going  on  for  the  Church, 
was  in  his  twentieth  year.  Would  her  husband  forgive 
her  when  he  saw  John  in  the  garb  of  a  priest?  She 
wondered  and  wondered. 

So  deep  was  she  in  this  thought  that  she  did  not  no- 
tice the  entrance  of  old  Marse  Prendergast,  who  lived  in 
a  cabin  just  across  the  road.  Marse  was  a  super- 
annuated shuiler  and  a  terror  in  the  valley.  The  tears 
had  been  summoned  to  her  eyes  by  the  still  unchang- 


10     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ing  quality  of  Ned's  tone.  They  were  at  once  detected 
by  the  old  woman. 

' '  Still  crying,  are  ye,  Nan  Byrne,  for  Henry  Shannon 
that's  dead  and  gone?" 

This  was  a  sore  cut,  but  it  was  because  of  its  severity 
that  it  had  been  given.  Marse  Prendergast 's  method 
was  to  attack  the  person  from  whom  she  desired  an  alms 
instead  of  making  an  approach  in  fear  and  trembling. 

"Well,  what's  the  use  in  regretting  now  that  he  didn't 
marry  ye  after  all?  ...  Maybe  you  could  give  me  a 
bit  of  Ned's  tobacco  for  me  little  pipe,  or  a  few  coppers 
to  buy  some." 

' '  I  will  in  troth, ' '  she  said,  searching  her  apron  pocket, 
only  to  discover  that  Ned  had  taken  all  her  spare  cop- 
pers. She  communicated  her  regrets  to  the  old  woman, 
but  her  words  fell  upon  ears  that  doubted. 

"Ah-ha,  the  lie  is  on  your  lip  yet,  Nan  Byrne,  just 
as  it  was  there  for  your  poor  husband  the  day  he  mar- 
ried you,  God  save  us  all  from  harm — you  who  were 
what  you  were  before  you  went  away  to  England.  And 
now  the  cheek  you  have  to  go  refuse  me  the  few  coppers. 
Ye  think  ye 're  a  great  one,  don't  you,  with  your  son 
at  college,  and  he  going  on  to  be  a  priest.  Well,  let 
me  tell  you  that  a  priest  he'll  never  be,  your  grand  son, 
John.  Ye  have  the  quare  nerve  to  imagine  it  indeed  if 
you  ever  think  of  what  happened  to  your  other  little 
son.  .  .  .  Maybe  'tis  what  ye  don't  remember  that,  Nan 
Bryne.  .  .  .  The  poor  little  thing  screeching  in  the 
night-time,  and  some  one  carrying  a  box  out  into  the  gar- 
den in  the  moonlight,  and  them  digging  the  hole.  .  .  . 
Ah,  'tis  well  I  know  all  that,  Nan  Byrne,  although  you 
may  think  yourself  very  clever  and  mysterious.  And 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     11 

'tis  maybe  I'll  see  you  swing  for  it  yet  with  your  re- 
fusals and  the  great  annoyance  you  put  me  to  for  the 
means  of  a  smoke,  and  I  a  real  ould  woman  and  all.  But 
listen  here  to  me,  Nan  Byrne!  'Tis  maybe  to  your 
grand  son,  John  Brennan,  I  '11  be  telling  the  whole  story 
some  day!" 


CHAPTER  II 

HER  tongue  still  clacking  in  soliloquy,  Marse  Pren- 
dergast  hobbled  out  of  the  house,  and  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan  went  to  the  small  back  window  of  the  sewing-room. 
She  gazed  wistfully  down  the  long,  sloping  fields  to- 
wards the  little  lake  which  nestled  in  the  bosom  of  the 
valley.  Within  the  periods  of  acute  consciousness  which 
came  between  her  sobs  she  began  to  examine  the  curious 
edifice  of  life  which  housed  her  soul.  An  unaccount- 
able, swift  power  to  do  this  came  to  her  as  she  saw  the 
place  around  which  she  had  played  as  a  child,  long 
ago,  when  she  had  a  brow  snow-white  and  smooth,  with 
nice  hair  and  laughing  eyes.  Her  soul,  too,  at  that 
time  was  clean — clean  like  the  water.  And  she  was  wont 
to  have  glad  thoughts  of  the  coming  years  when  she  had 
sprung  to  girlhood  and  could  wear  pretty  frocks  and 
bind  up  her  hair.  Across  her  mind  had  never  fallen 
the  faintest  shadow  of  the  thing  that  was  to  happen  to 
her. 

Yet  now,  as  she  ran  over  everything  in  her  mind,  she 
marveled  not  a  little  that,  although  she  could  not  pos- 
sibly have  returned  to  the  perfect  innocence  of  her  child- 
hood state,  she  had  triumphed  over  the  blight  of  certain 
circumstances  to  an  extraordinary  extent.  She  was  sur- 
prised to  realize  that  there  must  have  been  some  strength 
of  character  in  her  not  possessed  by  the  other  women 
of  the  valley.  It  had  been  her  mother's  mark  of  dis- 
12 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      13 

tinction,  but  the  dead  woman  had  used  it  towards  the 
achievement  of  different  ends.  Ends,  too,  which  had 
left  their  mark  upon  the  lives  of  both  her  daughters. 

It  struck  her  now,  with  another  lash  of  surprise,  that 
it  had  been  an  amazingly  cheeky  thing  to  have  returned 
to  the  valley;  but,  as  the  shining  waters  of  the  lake 
led  her  mind  into  the  quiet  ways  of  contemplation,  she 
could  not  help  thinking  that  she  had  triumphed  well. 

To  be  living  here  at  all  with  such  a  husband,  and  her 
son  away  in  England  preparing  for  the  priesthood, 
seemed  the  very  queerest,  queerest  thing.  It  was  true 
that  she  held  herself  up  well  and  had  a  fine  conceit  of 
herself,  if  you  please.  The  mothers  of  the  neighborhood 
had,  for  the  most  part,  chosen  to  forget  the  contamina- 
tion that  might  have  arisen  from  sending  their  daugh- 
ters to  a  woman  like  her  for  their  dresses,  and,  in  con- 
sequence, she  had  been  enabled  to  build  up  this  little 
business.  She  asserted  herself  in  the  ways  of  assertion 
which  were  open  to  the  dwellers  in  the  valley.  She  at- 
tended to  her  religious  duties  with  admirable  regularity. 
It  was  not  alone  that  she  fulfilled  the  obligation  of  hear- 
ing Mass  on  Sundays  and  Holydays,  but  also  on  many 
an  ordinary  morning  when  there  was  really  no  need  to 
be  so  very  pious.  She  went  just  to  show  them  that  she 
was  passionately  devoted  to  religion.  Yet  her  neigh- 
bors never  once  regarded  her  in  the  light  of  a  second 
Mary  Magdalene.  They  entered  into  competition  with 
her,  it  was  true,  for  they  could  not  let  it  be  said  that 
Nan  Byrne  was  more  religious  than  they,  and  so,  be- 
tween them,  they  succeeded  in  degrading  the  Mysteries. 
But  it  was  the  only  way  that  was  open  to  them  of  show- 
ing off  their  souls. 


14     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

On  a  Sunday  morning  the  procession  they  formed  was 
like  a  flock  of  human  crows.  And  the  noise  they  made 
was  a  continual  caw  of  calumny.  The  one  presently  ab- 
sent was  set  down  as  the  sinner.  They  were  eternally 
the  Pharisees  and  she  the  Publican.  Mrs.  Brennan  was 
great  among  these  crows  of  calumny.  It  was  her  place 
of  power.  She  could  give  out  an  opinion  coming  home 
from  Mass  upon  any  person  at  all  that  would  almost 
take  the  hearing  out  of  your  ears.  She  effectively  beat 
down  the  voice  of  criticism  against  herself  by  her  sweep- 
ing denunciations  of  all  others.  It  was  an  unusual 
method,  and  resembled  that  of  Marse  Prendergast,  the 
shuiler,  from  whom  it  may  probably  have  been  copied. 
It  led  many  to  form  curious  estimates  as  to  the  exact 
type  of  mind  possessed  by  the  woman  who  made  use  of 
it.  There  were  some  who  described  it  as  "thickness," 
a  rather  remarkable  designation  given  to  a  certain  qual- 
ity of  temper  by  the  people  of  the  valley.  But  there 
was  no  denying  that  it  had  won  for  her  a  cumulative 
series  of  results  which  had  built  up  about  her  some- 
thing definite  and  original  and  placed  her  resolutely 
in  the  life  of  the  valley. 

She  would  often  say  a  thing  like  this,  and  it  might 
be  taken  as  a  good  example  of  her  talk  and  as  throwing 
a  light  as  well  upon  the  conversation  of  those  with  whom 
she  walked  home  the  road  from  the  House  of  God.  A 
young  couple  would  have  done  the  best  thing  by  marry- 
ing at  the  right  age,  and  these  long-married  women  with 
the  queer  minds  would  be  putting  before  them  the  very 
worst  prospects.  Mrs.  Brennan  would  distinguish  her- 
self by  saying  a  characteristic  thing : 

"Well,    if    there's    quarreling    between    them,    and, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      15 

musha !  the  same  is  sure  to  be,  the  names  they  '11  call  one 
another  won't  be  very  nice  for  the  pedigree  is  not  too 
clean  on  either  side  of  the  house." 

No  word  of  contradiction  or  comment  would  come 
from  the  others,  for  this  was  a  morsel  too  choice  to  be 
disdained,  seeing  that  it  so  perfectly  expressed  their 
own  thoughts  and  the  most  intimate  wishes  of  their 
hearts.  It  was  when  they  got  home,  however,  and,  dur- 
ing the  remaining  portion  of  the  Sunday,  their  happy 
carnival  of  destructive  gossip,  that  they  would  think  of 
asking  themselves  the  question — "What  right  had  Nan 
Byrne  of  all  people  to  be  thinking  of  little  slips  that 
had  happened  in  the  days  gone  by?"  But  the  unrea- 
sonableness of  her  words  never  appeared  in  this  light  to 
her  own  mind.  She  was  self-righteous  to  an  enormous 
degree,  and  it  was  her  particular  fancy  to  consider  all 
women  as  retaining  strongly  their  primal  degradation. 
And  yet  it  was  at  such  a  time  she  remembered,  not 
penitently  however,  or  in  terms  of  abasement,  but  with 
a  heavy  sadness  numbing  her  every  faculty.  It  was  her 
connection  with  a  great  sin  and  her  love  for  her  son 
John  which  would  not  become  reconciled. 

When  she  returned  to  the  valley  with  her  husband 
and  her  young  child  she  had  inaugurated  her  life's 
dream.  Her  son  John  was  to  be  her  final  justification 
before  the  world  and,  in  a  most  wondrous  way,  had  her 
dream  begun  to  come  true.  She  had  reared  him  well, 
and  he  was  so  different  from  Ned  Brennan.  He  was 
of  a  kindly  disposition  and,  in  the  opinion  of  Master 
Donnellan,  who  was  well  hated  by  his  mother,  gave 
promise  of  great  things.  He  had  passed  through  the 
National  School  in  some  way  that  was  known  only  to 


16     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Mrs.  Brennan,  to  "a  grand  College  in  England."  He 
appeared  as  an  extraordinary  exception  to  the  breed  of 
the  valley,  especially  when  one  considered  the  characters 
of  both  his  parents. 

Mrs.  Brennan  dearly  loved  her  son,  but  even  here,  as 
in  every  phase  of  her  life,  the  curious  twist  of  her  na- 
ture revealed  itself.  Hers  was  a  selfish  love,  for  it  had 
mostly  to  do  with  the  triumph  he  represented  for  her 
before  the  people  of  the  valley.  But  this  was  her  dream, 
and  a  dream  may  often  become  dearer  than  a  child.  It 
was  her  one  sustaining  joy,  and  she  could  not  bear  to 
think  of  any  shadow  falling  down  to  darken  its  gran- 
deur. The  least  suspicion  of  a  calamity  of  this  kind  al- 
ways had  the  effect  of  reducing  to  ruins  the  brazen 
front  of  the  Mrs.  Brennan  who  presented  herself  to 
the  valley  and  of  giving  her  a  kind  of  fainting  in  her 
very  heart. 

Her  lovely  son!  She  wiped  her  tear-stained  cheeks 
now  with  the  corner  of  her  black  apron,  for  Farrell  Mc- 
Guinness,  the  postman,  was  at  the  door.  He  said, 
' ' Good-morra,  Mrs.  Brennan!"  and  handed  her  a  let- 
ter. It  was  from  John,  telling  her  that  his  summer 
holidays  were  almost  at  hand.  It  seemed  strange  that, 
just  now,  when  she  had  been  thinking  of  him,  this  let- 
ter should  have  come.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  how  quickly  the 
time  passed,  now  that  the  snow  had  settled  upon  her 
hair. 

Farrell  McGuinness  was  loitering  by  the  door  waiting 
to  have  a  word  with  her  when  she  had  read  her  letter. 

"I  hear  Mary  Cooney  over  in  Cruckenerega  is  home 
from  Belfast  again.  Aye,  and  that  she 's  shut  herself  up 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      17 

in  a  room  and  not  one  can  see  a  sight  of  her.  Isn't 
that  quare  now?  Isn't  it,  Mrs.  Brennan?" 

"It's  great,  isn't  it,  Farrell?  You  may  be  sure 
there's  something  the  matter  with  her." 

1 '  God  bless  us  now,  but  wouldn  't  that  be  the  hard  blow 
to  her  father  and  mother  and  to  her  little  sisters?" 

"Arrah  musha,  between  you  and  me  and  the  wall,  the 
divil  a  loss.  What  could  she  be,  anyhow?" 

"That's  true  for  you,  Mrs.  Brennan!" 

"Aye,  and  to  think  that  it  was  in  Belfast,  of  all  places, 
that  it  happened.  Now,  d'ye  know  what  I'm  going  to 
tell  ye,  Farrell?  'Tis  the  bad,  Orange,  immoral  hole  of 
a  place  is  the  same  Belfast!" 


CHAPTER  III 

FARRELL  McGUINNESS,  grinning  to  himself,  had 
moved  away  on  his  red  bicycle,  and  a  motor  now 
came  towards  her  in  its  envelope  of  dust  down  the  long 
road  of  Tullahanogue.  This  was  the  first  hire  motor 
that  had  appeared  in  the  village  of  Garradrimna  and 
was  the  property  of  Charlie  Clarke,  an  excellent,  re- 
ligious man,  who  had  interested  himself  so  successfully 
in  bazaars  and  the  charities  that  he  had  been  thus 
enabled  to  purchase  it.  Its  coming  amongst  them  had 
been  a  sensational  occurrence.  If  a  neighbor  wished  to 
flout  a  neighbor  it  was  done  by  hiring  Clarke 's  car ;  and 
Mrs.  Brennan  immediately  thought  what  a  grand  thing 
it  would  be  to  take  it  on  the  coming  Thursday  and  make 
a  brave  show  with  her  son  John  sitting  up  beside  her 
and  he  dressed  in  black.  The  dignity  of  her  son,  now 
moving  so  near  the  priesthood,  demanded  such  a  demon- 
stration. She  hailed  Charlie  Clarke,  and  the  car  came 
suddenly  to  a  standstill.  The  petrol  fumes  mingling 
with  the  rising  dust  of  the  summer  road,  floated  to  her 
nostrils  like  some  incense  of  pride. 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Brennan!" 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Clarke!" 

"You're  not  at  the  races  of  Mullaghowen  ? ' ' 

"Not  yet,  Mrs.  Brennan,  but  I'm  going — and  with 
the  Houlihans  of  Clonabroney. " 
18 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     19 

"The  Houlihans  of  Clonabroney,  well,  well;  that's 
what  you  might  call  a  quality  drive." 

' '  Oh,  indeed,  'tis  almost  exclusively  to  the  quality  and 
to  the  priests  my  drives  are  confined,  Mrs.  Brennan. 
1  'm  not  patronized  by  the  beggars  of  the  valley. ' ' 

''That's  right,  Mr.  Clarke,  that's  right.  Keep  your 
car  clean  at  all  costs.  .  .  .  It's  what  I  just  stopped  you 
to  see  if  you  could  drive  me  over  to  Kilaconnaghan  to 
meet  my  son  John  on  Thursday.  He's  coming  home." 

"Is  that  so?  Well  you  may  say  that's  grand,  Mrs. 
Brennan.  Oh,  indeed,  John  is  the  rare  credit  to  you, 
so  he  is.  You  should  be  proud  of  him,  for  'tis  the  fine 
beautiful  thing  to  be  going  on  for  the  Church.  In  fact, 
do  ye  know  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Brennan?  Only  I'm  mar- 
ried, I'd  be  thinking  this  very  minute  of  giving  up  mo- 
tor, shop,  land  and  everything  and  going  into  a  monas- 
tery. I  would  so." 

"Now  aren't  you  .the  fine,  noble-minded  man  to  be 
thinking  of  the  like?" 

"I  am  so.  ...  Well,  I'll  drive  you,  Mrs.  Brennan. 
On  Thursday,  you  say,  to  Kilaconnaghan.  The  round 
trip  will  cost  you  fifteen  shillings." 

"Fifteen  shillings?" 

Charlie  Clarke  had  already  re-started  the  car  which 
was  again  humming  dustily  down  the  road.  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan turned  wearily  into  the  sewing-room  and  seated  her- 
self once  more  by  the  machine.  She  was  crushed  a 
little  by  the  thought  of  the  fifteen  shillings.  She  saw 
clearly  before  her  the  long  procession  of  the  hours  of 
torture  for  her  eyes  that  the  amount  represented.  It 
appeared  well  that  she  had  not  given  the  few  coppers 
to  old  Marse  Prendergast,  for,  even  as  things  stood, 


20     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

she  must  approach  some  of  her  customers  towards  the 
settlement  of  small  accounts  to  enable  her  to  spend  fif- 
teen shillings  in  the  display  of  her  pride.  .  .  .  For 
eighteen  years  it  had  been  thus  with  her,  this  continual 
scraping  and  worrying  about  money.  She  wondered 
and  wondered  now  was  she  ever  destined  to  find  release 
from  mean  tortures.  Maybe  when  her  son  had  become 
a  priest  he  would  be  good  to  his  mother?  She  had 
known  of  priests  and  the  relatives  of  priests,  who  had 
grown  amazingly  rich. 

She  was  recalled  from  her  long  reverie  by  the  return 
of  Ned  Brennan  from  Garradrimna.  The  signs  of  drink 
were  upon  him. 

"Where's  me  dinner?"  he  said,  in  a  flat,  heavy  voice. 

"Your  dinner,  is  it?  Oh  dear,  dear,  'tis  how  I  never 
thought  of  putting  it  on  yet.  I  had  a  letter  from  John, 
and  sure  it  set  me  thinking.  God  knows  I'll  have  it 
ready  for  you  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Aye,  John.  A  letter  from  John.  .  .  .  Begad  .  .  . 
Begad  .  .  .  And  I  wanting  me  dinner!" 

"So  you'll  have  it,  so  you'll  have  it.  Now  aren't 
you  the  wild,  impatient  man?  Can't  you  wait  a  min- 
ute?" 

' '  I  never  did  see  such  a  woman  as  you,  and  I  in  a  com- 
plete hurry.  Three  slates  slipped  down  off  the  school 
roof  in  the  bit  of  wind  the  other  night,  and  I'm  after 
getting  instructions  from  Father  O'Keeffe  to  put  them 
on." 

"Ah,  sure,  'tis  well  I  know  how  good  and  industrious 
you  are,  Ned.  That's  the  sixth  time  this  year  you've 
put  on  the  very  same  slates.  You're  a  good  man,  in- 
deed, and  a  fine  tradesman." 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     21 

For  the  moment  his  anger  was  appeased  by  this  iron- 
ical compliment,  which  she  did  not  intend  as  irony ;  but 
at  heart  he  was  deeply  vexed  because  he  was  going  to 
do  this  little  job.  She  knew  he  must  be  talking  of  it 
for  months  to  come.  When  the  few  shillings  it  brought 
him  were  spent  she  must  give  him  others  and  others  as 
a  continuous  reward  for  his  vast  effort.  This  she  must 
do  as  a  part  of  her  tragic  existence,  while  beholding  at 
the  same  time  how  he  despised  her  in  his  heart. 

But,  just  now,  the  bitterness  of  this  realization  did 
not  assail  her  with  the  full  power  of  the  outer  darkness, 
for  her  mind  was  lit  brilliantly  to-day  by  the  thought 
of  John.  And  during  the  hours  that  passed  after  she 
had  fitted  out  Ned  for  his  adventurous  expedition  to  the 
roof  she  could  just  barely  summon  up  courage  to  turn 
the  machine,  so  consumed  was  she  by  a  great  yearning 
for  her  son. 

The  days,  until  Thursday,  seemed  to  stretch  them- 
selves into  an  age.  But  at  three  o'clock,  when  Charlie 
Clarke's  white  motor  drew  up  at  the  door,  she  was  still 
preparing  for  the  journey.  In  the  room  which  had 
known  another  aspect  of  her  life  she  had  been  adorning 
herself  for  long  hours.  The  very  best  clothes  and  all 
the  personal  ornaments  in  her  possession  must  needs  be 
brought  into  use.  For  it  had  suddenly  appeared  to  her 
that  she  was  about  to  enter  into  an  unique  ceremony 
comparable  only  to  the  ordination  of  John. 

Searching  in  an  unfrequented  drawer  of  the  dressing- 
table  for  hair-pins,  she  had  come  upon  an  old  cameo- 
brooch,  one  of  Henry  Shannon's  costly  presents  to  her 
during  the  period  of  their  strange  "honeymoon."  It 
was  a  pretty  thing,  so  massive  and  so  respectable-look- 


22     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ing.  It  was  of  that  heavy  Victorian  period  to  which 
her  story  also  belonged.  With  trembling  hands  she 
fastened  it  upon  her  bosom.  In  a  deeper  recess  of  the 
drawer  she  came  upon  a  powder  puff  in  a  small  round 
box,  which  still  held  some  of  the  aid  to  beauty  remain- 
ing dry  and  useful  through  all  the  years.  She  had  once 
used  it  to  heighten  her  graces  in  the  eyes  of  Henry 
Shannon.  And  now,  for  all  the  blanching  trouble 
through  which  she  had  passed,  she  could  not  resist  the 
impulses  of  the  light  woman  in  her  and  use  it  to  assert 
her  pride  in  her  son.  It  must  be  a  part  of  her  decking- 
out  as  she  passed  through  the  valley  in  a  motor  for  the 
first  time,  going  forth  to  meet  her  son. 

She  took  her  seat  at  last  by  the  side  of  Charlie  Clarke, 
and  passed  proudly  down  the  valley  road.  Things 
might  have  gone  as  agreeably  as  she  had  planned  but 
for  the  peculiar  religious  warp  there  was  in  Charlie. 
He  might  have  talked  about  the  mechanism  of  his  car 
or  remarked  at  length  upon  the  beauty  of  the  summer 
day,  but  he  must  inevitably  twist  the  conversation  in 
the  direction  of  religion. 

"I  suppose,"  said  he,  ''that  it's  a  fine  thing  to  be  the 
mother  of  a  young  fellow  going  on  for  the  Church.  It 
must  make  you  very  contented  in  yourself  when  you 
think  of  all  the  Masses  he  will  say  for  you  during  your 
lifetime  and  all  the  Masses  he  will  say  for  the  repose  of 
your  soul  when  you  are  dead  and  gone." 

"Aye,  indeed,  that's  a  grand  and  a  true  saying  for 
you,  Mr.  Clarke.  But  sure  what  else  could  one  expect 
from  you,  and  yourself  the  good  man  that  goes  to  Mass 
every  day?" 

"And,  Mrs.  Brennan,  woman  dear,  to  see  him  saying 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     23 

the  Holy  Mass,  and  he  having  his  face  shining  with  the 
Light  of  Heaven ! ' ' 

"A  beautiful  sight,  Mr.  Clarke,  as  sure  as  you're 
there." 

The  car  was  speeding  along  merrily,  and  now  it  had 
just  passed,  with  a  slight  bump,  over  the  culvert  of  a 
stream,  which  here  and  there  was  playing  musically 
about  little  stones,  and  here  and  there  was  like  bits  of 
molten  silver  spitting  in  the  sun.  It  was  a  grand  day. 

Whether  or  not  the  unusual  sensation  of  the  throbbing 
car  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Brennan,  she  was  speaking 
little  although  listening  eagerly  to  the  words  of  Charlie 
Clarke,  asking  him  once  or  twice  to  repeat  some  sen- 
tences she  had  been  kept  from  hearing  by  the  noise  of 
the  engine.  Now  she  was  growing  more  and  more  silent, 
for  they  had  not  yet  passed  out  of  the  barony  of  Tulla- 
hanogue.  She  saw  many  a  head  suddenly  fill  many  a 
squinting  window,  and  men  and  women  they  met  on  the 
road  turn  round  with  a  sneer  to  gaze  back  at  her  sitting 
up  there  beside  Charlie  Clarke,  the  saintly  chauffeur 
who  went  to  Mass  every  day. 

Her  ears  were  burning,  and  into  her  mind,  in  power- 
ful battalions,  were  coming  all  the  thoughts  that  had 
just  been  born  in  the  minds  of  the  others.  The  powder 
she  had  applied  to  her  cheeks  was  now  like  a  burning 
sweat  upon  her  skin.  The  cameo-brooch  felt  like  a 
great  weight  where  it  lay  upon  her  bosom  heavily.  It 
caught  her  breath  and  so  prevented  her  maintaining 
conversation  with  Charlie  Clarke.  It  reminded  her  in- 
sistently of  the  dear  baby  head  of  John  reposing,  as  in 
a  bower  of  tenderness,  upon  the  same  place. 

"It  must  be  the  grand  and  blessed  thing  for  a  mother 


24     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  go  to  confession  to  her  son.  Now  wouldn't  it  be  won- 
derful to  think  of  telling  him,  as  the  minister  of  God's 
mercy,  the  little  faults  she  had  committed  before  he  was 
born  or  before  she  married  his  father.  Now  isn't  that 
the  queer  thought,  Mrs.  Brennan?" 

She  did  not  reply,  and  it  took  all  she  could  marshal 
of  self-possession  to  protect  her  from  tears  as  the  motor 
hummed  into  the  village  of  Kilaconnaghan,  where  the 
railway  station  was.  They  had  arrived  well  in  advance 
of  the  train's  time.  She  passed  through  the  little  wait- 
ing-room and  looked  into  the  advertisement  for  Jame- 
son's Whiskey,  which  was  also  a  mirror.  She  remem- 
bered that  it  was  in  this  very  room  she  had  waited  be- 
fore going  away  for  that  disastrous  "honeymoon"  with 
Henry  Shannon.  .  .  .  This  was  a  better  mirror  than  the 
one  at  home,  and  she  saw  that  the  blaze  upon  her  cheeks 
had  already  subdued  the  power  of  the  powder,  making 
it  unnecessary  and  as  the  merest  dirt  upon  her  face.  .  .  . 
The  cameo-brooch  looked  so  large  and  gaudy.  .  .  .  She 
momentarily  considered  herself  not  at  all  unlike  some 
faded  women  of  the  pavement  she  had  seen  move,  like 
malignant  specters,  beneath  the  lamplight  in  Dublin 
city.  .  .  .  She  plucked  away  the  brooch  from  her  bosom 
and  thrust  it  into  her  pocket.  Then  she  wiped  her  face 
clean  with  her  handkerchief. 

Far  off,  and  as  a  glad  sound  coming  tentatively  to  her 
ears,  she  could  hear  the  train  that  was  bearing  her  be- 
loved son  home  to  the  valley  and  to  her.  It  was  nearly 
a  year  since  she  last  saw  him,  and  she  fancied  he  must 
have  changed  so  within  that  space  of  time.  Who  knew 
how  he  might  change  towards  her  some  day  ?  This  was 
her  constant  dread.  And  now  as  the  increasing  noise 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     25 

of  the  train  told  that  it  was  drawing  nearer  she  felt  im- 
mensely lonely. 

The  few  stray  passengers  who  ever  came  to  Kilacon- 
naghan  by  the  afternoon  train  had  got  out,  and  John 
Brennan  was  amongst  them.  On  the  journey  from  Dub- 
lin he  had  occupied  a  carriage  with  Myles  Shannon,  who 
was  the  surviving  brother  of  Henry  Shannon  and  the 
magnate  of  the  valley.  The  time  had  passed  pleasantly 
enough,  for  Mr.  Shannon  was  a  well-read,  interesting 
man.  He  had  spoken  in  an  illuminating  way  of  the 
Great  War.  He  viewed  it  in  the  light  of  a  scourge  and 
a  just  reckoning  of  calamity  that  the  nations  must  pay 
for  bad  deeds  they  had  done.  "It  is  strange,"  said  he, 
"that  even  a  nation,  just  like  an  individual,  must  pay  its 
just  toll  for  its  sins.  It  cannot  escape,  for  the  punish- 
ment is  written  down  with  the  sin.  There  is  not  one 
of  us  who  may  not  be  made  to  feel  the  wide  sweep  of 
God's  justice  in  this  Great  "War,  even  you,  my  boy,  who 
may  think  yourself  far  removed  from  such  a  possibil- 
ity." 

These  were  memorable  words,  and  John  Brennan  al- 
lowed himself  to  fall  into  a  spell  of  silence  that  he  might 
the  better  ponder  them.  Looking  up  suddenly,  he 
caught  the  other  gazing  intently  at  him  with  a  harsh 
smile  upon  his  face. 

So  now  that  they  were  to  part  they  turned  to  shake 
hands. 

' '  Good-by,  Mr.  Brennan ! ' '  said  Myles  Shannon  to 
the  student.  "I  wish  you  an  enjoyable  holiday-time. 
Maybe  you  could  call  over  some  evening  to  see  my 
nephew  Ulick,  my  brother  Henry's  son.  He's  here  on 
holidays  this  year  for  the  first  time,  and  he  finds  the 


26     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

valley  uncommonly  dull  after  the  delights  of  Dublin. 
He's  a  gay  young  spark,  I  can  tell  you,  but  students 
of  physic  are  generally  more  inclined  to  be  lively  than 
students  of  divinity." 

This  he  said  with  a  flicker  of  his  harsh  smile  as  they 
shook  hands,  and  John  Brennan  thanked  him  for  his 
kind  invitation.  Catching  sight  of  Mrs.  Brennan,  Mr. 
Shannon  said,  "Good-day!"  coolly  and  moved  out  of  the 
station. 

To  Mrs.  Brennan  this  short  conversation  on  the  plat- 
form had  seemed  protracted  to  a  dreadful  length.  As 
she  beheld  it  from  a  little  distance  a  kind  of  desolation 
had  leaped  up  to  destroy  the  lovely  day.  It  compelled 
her  to  feel  a  kind  of  hurt  that  her  son  should  have 
chosen  to  expend  the  few  first  seconds  of  his  home-com- 
ing in  talking,  of  all  people,  to  one  of  the  Shannon 
family.  But  he  was  a  young  gentleman  and  must,  of 
course,  show  off  his  courtesy  and  nice  manners.  And 
he  did  not  know  .  .  .  But  Myles  Shannon  knew.  .  .  . 
His  cool  "Good-day!"  to  her  as  he  moved  out  of  the 
station  appeared  to  her  delicate  sensitiveness  of  the 
moment  as  an  exhibition  of  his  knowledge.  Immediately 
she  felt  that  she  must  warn  John  against  the  Shannons. 

He  came  towards  her  at  last,  a  thin  young  man  in 
black,  wearing  cheap  spectacles.  He  looked  tenderly 
upon  the  woman  who  had  borne  him.  She  embraced 
him  and  entered  into  a  state  of  rapt  admiration.  Within 
the  wonder  of  his  presence  she  was  as  one  translated, 
her  sad  thoughts  began  to  fall  from  her  one  by  one. 
On  the  platform  of  this  dusty  wayside  station  in  Ire- 
land she  became  a  part  of  the  glory  of  motherhood  as 
she  stood  there  looking  with  pride  upon  her  son. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     27 

The  motor  had  surprised  him.  He  would  have  been 
better  pleased  if  this  expense  had  been  avoided,  for  he 
was  not  without  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  the  con- 
dition of  his  parents'  affairs.  Besides  the  little  donkey 
and  trap  had  always  appeared  so  welcome  in  their  sim- 
plicity, and  it  was  by  means  of  them  that  all  his  former 
home-comings  had  been  effected.  Those  easy  voyages 
had  afforded  opportunity  for  contemplation  upon  the 
splendor  of  the  fields,  but  now  the  fields  seemed  to  slip 
past  as  if  annoyed  by  their  faithlessness.  Yet  he  knew 
that  his  mother  had  done  this  thing  to  please  him,  and 
how  could  he  find  it  in  his  heart  to  be  displeased  with 
her? 

She  was  speaking  kind  words  to  him,  which  were  being 
rudely  destroyed,  in  their  tender  intonation,  by  the  noise 
of  the  engine.  She  was  setting  forth  the  reasons  why 
she  had  taken  the  car.  It  was  the  right  thing  now 
around  Garradrimna. — The  Houlihans  of  Clonabroney. 
— Again  the  changing  of  the  gears  cut  short  her  ex- 
planation. 

"That  man  who  was  down  with  you  in  the  train,  Mr. 
Shannon,  what  was  he  saying  to  you?" 

"Indeed  he  was  kindly  inviting  me  over  to  see  his 
nephew.  I  never  knew  he  had  a  nephew,  but  it  seems 
he  has  lived  up  in  Dublin.  He  said  that  his  brother, 
Henry  Shannon,  was  the  father  of  this  young  man." 

The  feelings  which  her  son's  words  brought  rushing 
into  her  mind  seemed  to  cloud  out  all  the  brightness 
which,  for  her,  had  again  returned  to  the  day.  Yes,  this 
young  man,  this  Ulick  Shannon,  was  the  son  of  Henry 
Shannon  and  Henry  Shannon  was  the  one  who  had 
brought  the  great  darkness  into  her  life.  ...  It  would 


28     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

be  queer,  she  thought,  beyond  all  the  queerness  of  the 
world,  to  see  the  son  of  that  man  and  her  son  walking 
together  through  the  valley.  The  things  that  must  be 
said  of  them,  the  terrible  sneer  by  which  they  would  be 
surrounded — Henry  Shannon's  son  and  the  son  of  Nan 
Byrne.  .  .  .  She  grew  so  silent  beneath  the  sorrow  of 
her  vision  that,  even  in  the  less  noisy  spaces  of  the  hum- 
ming car,  the  amount  of  time  during  which  she  did  not 
speak  seemed  a  great  while. 

"What  is  the  matter,  mother?"  said  John  Brennan. 

"It  was  how  I  was  thinking  that  maybe  it  would  be 
better  now  if  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  Shan- 
nons. ' ' 

' '  But  it  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Shannon  to  invite  me. ' ' 

"I  know,  I  know;  but  I'd  rather  than  the  world  it  was 
any  other  family  at  all  only  the  Shannons.  They're  a 
curious  clan." 

In  the  painful  silence  that  had  come  upon  them  she 
too  was  thinking  of  the  reasons  from  which  her  words 
had  sprung.  Of  how  Henry  Shannon  had  failed  to 
marry  her  after  he  had  mined  her;  of  how  the  disgrace 
had  done  no  harm  at  all  to  him  with  his  money  and  his 
fine  farm.  Then  there  was  the  burning  thought  of  how 
he  had  married  Grace  Gogarty,  the  proudest  and  grand- 
est girl  in  the  whole  parish,  and  of  how  this  young  man 
had  been  born  prematurely  and,  by  a  curious  chance, 
about  the  same  time  as  her  own  little  child.  The  one 
thing  that  she  always  dreaded  more  than  any  other, 
in  the  pain  of  its  remembrance,  was  the  fact  that  Henry 
Shannon  had  married  Grace  Gogarty  directly  after  the 
"honeymoon"  with  her  in  Dublin.  Yes,  it  was  hardest 
of  all  to  think  of  that,  and  of  how  Grace  Gogarty  had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     29 

so  held  up  her  head  all  through  the  short  period  of  her 
wedded  life  with  Henry  Shannon.  And  after  his  death 
she  had  gone  about  with  such  conceited  sorrowfulness 
in  her  widow's  weeds. 

These  thoughts  had  passed  through  her  mind  with 
swift  definition,  each  one  cutting  deeper  the  gap  which 
separated  her  from  the  long-dreamt-of  joy  of  John's 
home-coming.  And  her  lovely  son  sitting  up  beside  her 
had  grown  so  silent. 

As  the  car  stopped  by  the  house  and  Ned  Brennan 
came  out  to  meet  them,  unshaven  and  walking  doggedly, 
she  felt  very  certain  that  a  shadow  had  settled  down 
upon  this  particular  return  of  John.  The  remembrance 
of  her  sin,  from  which  it  seemed  impossible  to  escape, 
made  the  great  thing  she  had  planned  so  little  and 
desolate. 


CHAPTER  IV 

rTIHERE  arose  a  continual  coming  and  going  of  John 
J.  Brennan  to  and  from  the  house  of  his  mother 
through  the  valley.  He  was  an  object  of  curiosity  and 
conjecture.  The  windows  would  squint  at  him  as  he 
went  past  through  power  of  the  leering  faces  behind; 
men  working  in  the  fields  would  run  to  the  hedges  and 
gaze  after  him  as  he  went  far  down  the  road. 

In  the  evenings  black  prophets  would  foregather  and 
say:  "Now  isn't  he  the  fine-looking  young  fellow  in- 
deed, with  the  grand  black  clothes  upon  him;  but  he'll 
never  be  a  priest,  and  that's  as  sure  as  you're  there,  for 
his  mother  is  Nan  Byrne,  and  she  was  a  bad  woman,  God 
help  us  all !  'Tis  a  pity  of  him,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  for  it  isn't  his  fault,  happening  as  it  did 
before  he  was  born.' ' 

John  Brennan  was  innocent  of  guile,  and  so  he  did  not 
become  aware  of  the  attitude  of  those  among  whom  he 
passed.  He  did  not  realize  that  in  his  own  person  he 
stood  as  an  affront  to  them,  that  he  was  the  Levite  stand- 
ing nearer  God  than  they  in  their  crude  condition  as 
clods  of  the  earth.  It  was  his  mother  who  had  created 
this  position  for  him,  for  she  had  directed  his  studies 
towards  divinity.  If  his  natural  abilities  had  won  him 
the  promise  of  any  other  elevation,  it  might  not  have 
annoyed  them  so  deeply.  But  this  was  something  they 
could  not  have  been  expected  to  bear,  for  not  one 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     31 

amongst  them  had  a  son  a  priest,  although  they  believed 
as  implicity  as  Mrs.  Breiman  in  the  virtue  of  religion, 
and  there  was  always  a  feeling  of  intense  righteousness 
upon  them  when  they  remembered  her  story. 

Yet,  although  this  was  the  way  they  looked  upon  him, 
they  were  not  without  a  certain  cringing  respect  for  the 
realization  he  represented.  Thus  it  was  that  when  they 
spoke  to  him  there  was  a  touch  of  deference  in  their 
voices  although  there  was  a  sneer  in  their  hearts.  It 
could  not  be  expected  that  he  should  see  them  as  they 
really  were.  Yet  there  were  odd,  great  moments  when 
his  larger  vision  enabled  him  to  behold  them  moving 
infinitesimally,  in  affright,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
Divine  Hand.  He  possessed  a  certain  gift  of  observa- 
tion, but  it  was  superficial  and  of  little  consequence  to 
his  character  for  it  flourished  side  by  side  with  the  large 
charity  of  his  heart. 

One  morning  he  encountered  old  Marse  Prendergast 
upon  the  road.  She  was  gathering  a  few  green  sticks 
from  the  hedge-rows.  She  seemed  to  be  always  looking 
for  the  means  of  a  fire,  and,  to  John  Brennan,  there 
appeared  something  that  touched  him  greatly  in  the 
spectacle  of  this  whining  old  woman,  from  whom  the 
spark  of  life  was  so  quickly  fading,  having  no  comfort, 
even  on  a  summer  day,  but  just  to  be  sitting  over  a  few 
smoldering  sticks,  sucking  at  an  old  black  pipe  and 
breaking  out  into  occasional  converse  with  herself.  She 
who  had  given  birth  to  strong  sons  and  lovely  daughters 
sitting  here  in  her  little  cabin  alone.  Her  clutch  was 
gone  from  her  to  America,  to  the  streets,  and  to  the 
grave. 

.John  Brennan  felt  the  pity  of  her,  although  he  did  not 


32     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

notice  that  the  curtsey  she  gave  him  from  the  ditch  was 
an  essential  portion  of  her  contempt  for  the  son  of  Nan 
Byrne  (the  cheek  of  him  going  on  for  to  be  a  priest!), 
or  that  when  she  addressed  him  as  Mr.  Brennan  it  was 
in  derision. 

"And  glory  be  to  God,  sure  we'll  soon  have  to  be  call- 
ing you  Father  Brennan!"  she  repeated,  as  if  silently 
marveling  at  the  impossibility  of  the  combination  of 
words. 

He  saw  her  move  to  accompany  him  down  the  road, 
her  old  back  bent  cruelly  beneath  the  load  of  the 
weighty,  green  branches.  He  was  touched,  for  he  was 
not  blind  to  the  symbolism  for  which  she  stood,  and  of- 
fered to  carry  the  branches  for  her,  and  she,  accepting 
his  offer,  called  down  upon  his  head  the  blessing  of 
God. 

As  they  moved  slowly  along  the  road  she  recounted, 
in  snatches  between  her  questions  regarding  his  life  at 
college,  all  the  intimate  woes  of  her  life.  Her  lamenta- 
tions, as  they  drew  near  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Brennan,  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  his  mother,  who  saw  a  sight 
filling  her  eyes  which  cut  her  to  the  bone.  She  saw  her 
son  John,  her  hope  and  pride,  conversing  with  Marse 
Prendergast,  the  long-tongued  shuiler  who  tramped  the 
country  with  her  stories  and  in  quest  of  more  stories — 
Marse  Prendergast  who  knew  her  secret  as  no  other 
knew  it,  and  who  had  so  recently  reminded  her  of  that 
knowledge.  And  he  was  carrying  her  sticks  along  the 
public  road  in  the  full  light  of  day.  ...  So  powerful 
was  the  hurt  of  her  maternal  feelings  that  she  almost 
fainted  sitting  there  by  her  machine. 

When  John  came  into  the  room  she  looked  so  pale  that 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     33 

he  fancied  she  must  be  ill.  He  inquired  as  to  the  causes 
of  her  condition,  but  she  only  replied  that  she  would  try 
to  tell  him  when  he  had  taken  his  breakfast. 

As  he  was  eating  in  silence  she  wondered  what  at  all 
she  could  say  to  him  or  how  she  would  attempt  to  place 
her  view  of  things  before  him.  This  incident  of  the 
morning  might  be  taken  as  a  direct  foreshadowing  of 
what  might  happen  if  his  foolish  charity  extended  fur- 
ther down  the  valley.  She  did  not  dare  to  imagine 
what  things  he  might  be  told  or  what  stories  might  be 
suggested  to  his  mind  by  the  talk  of  the  neighbors.  But 
it  was  clearly  her  duty  doubly  to  protect  him  from  such 
a  possibility.  She  saw  that  he  had  finished  his  break- 
fast. 

"That  was  the  quare  thing  you  were  doing  just  now, 
John?  It  was  the  quarest  thing  at  all,  so  it  was." 

"Queer,  mother;  what  was?" 

"Talking  to  old  Marse  Prendergast,  son,  and  she  only 
a  woman  of  the  roads  with  a  bad  tongue  on  her." 

"I  only  stopped  talking  with  her,  mother,  so  that  I 
might  carry  her  sticks.  She  was  not  able. ' ' 

"And  she  used  the  fine  opportunity,  I'll  warrant,  to 
drag  information  out  of  you  and  carry  it  all  through  the 
valley.  That's  what  she  was  at!  That's  what  she  was 
at!" 

There  was  a  kind  of  mournful  wail  in  Mrs.  Brennan's" 
tones  as  if  she  saw  in  John 's  action  of  the  morning  some 
irretrievable  distance  placed  between  herself  and  him. 
The  people  of  the  valley  loomed  ever  great  as  an  army 
between  her  and  the  desire  of  her  heart,  and  John  had 
just  now,  as  it  were,  afforded  an  opening  to  the  enemy. 

He  received  a  certain  amount  of  hurt  from  her  words, 


3*     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

for  although  he  knew  her  only  as  his  mother  and  a  good 
woman  who  was  well  nigh  faultless  in  her  practise  of 
the  Christian  religion,  why  was  it  that  this  simple  ac- 
tion of  his,  with  its  slight  touch  of  charity,  was  resented 
by  her?  Yet  he  allowed  her  to  proceed  without  ques- 
tion, listening  always  with  that  high  and  fine  attention 
which  must  have  been  the  attitude  of  Christ  as  He  lis- 
tened to  His  Mother  in  Galilee. 

She  painted  a  picture  of  the  valley  for  his  considera- 
tion. She  proceeded  to  do  this  with  a  great  concern 
moving  her,  for  she  was  quick  to  perceive  the  change  in 
him  since  his  last  holidays.  He  was  a  man  now,  and  it 
was  to  his  manhood  condition  she  appealed.  She  be- 
gan to  tell  him,  with  such  a  rush  of  words,  the  life-his- 
tories of  those  around  him.  There  was  not  a  slight  de- 
tail she  did  not  go  to  great  pains  to  enlarge,  no  skeleton 
she  did  not  cause  to  jump  from  its  cupboard  and  run 
alive  once  more  through  the  valley.  She  painted  a  new 
portrait  of  every  inhabitant  in  a  way  that  amazed  John, 
who  had  not  known  of  such  things. 

But  over  his  first  feelings  of  surprise  came  a  great 
realization  of  sadness.  For  this  was  his  mother  who  was 
speaking.  Hitherto  he  had  looked  upon  her  as  one  un- 
touched by  the  clayey  villainies  of  earth,  a  patient  and 
very  noble  woman,  with  tired  eyes  and  busy  hands 
rather  fashioned  to  confer  benedictions  than  waste  them- 
selves in  labor.  Now  he  was  listening  to  one  most  subtly 
different,  to  a  woman  who  had  been  suddenly  meta- 
morphosed into  the  likeness  of  something  primeval  and 
startling.  And  she  was  oh!  so  bitter. 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  no  notion  of  the  change  that  had 
come  upon  her.  To  herself  there  still  appeared  no  dif- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     35 

ference  in  herself.  She  was  doing  all  this  for  love  of 
her  son  John,  as  she  had  done  much  for  love  of  him. 

There  fell  a  thick  silence  between  them  when  she  had 
finished.  The  mother  and  the  son  were  both  exhausted, 
he  from  listening  to  her  and  she  from  reading  the  pedi- 
grees of  every  one  to  whom  her  mind  could  possibly  ex- 
tend, including  Marse  Prendergast,  the  shuiler,  and  the 
Shannons,  who  were  almost  gentlemen  like  the  Houli- 
hans  of  Clonabroney. 

John  Brennan  sighed  as  he  said  out  of  the  innocence 
of  his  heart : 

"It  is  good,  mother,  that  we  are  not  as  the  rest  of 
these." 

Mrs.  Brennan  did  not  reply. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  rural  Ireland  the  "bona-fide,"  or  rather  mala-fide, 
traveler  constitutes  a  certain  blasphemous  aspect 
in  the  celebration  of  the  Sabbath.  There  are  different 
types  of  ' '  bona-fide, "  whose  characteristics  may  be  said 
to  vary  in  direct  proportion  to  their  love  and  enthus- 
iasm for  porter.  The  worship  of  porter,  when  it  has 
attained  the  proportions  of  a  perfect  passion,  is  best 
described  as  "the  pursuit  of  porter  in  a  can."  It  is 
the  cause  of  many  drunken  skirmishes  with  the  law, 
and  it  is  interesting  to  observe  such  mistaken  heroes  in 
the  execution  of  their  plans. 

At  a  given  signal  a  sudden  descent  is  made  upon  a 
pub.  A  series  of  whistles  from  sentries  in  various  parts 
of  the  village  has  announced  the  arrival  of  the  propitious 
moment.  A  big  tin 'can  is  the  only  visible  evidence  of 
their  dark  intention.  One  almost  forgets  its  betraying 
presence  in  the  whirling  moment  of  the  brave  deed. 
Then  the  deed  is  done.  By  some  extraordinary  process 
the  can  that  was  empty  is  found  to  be  filled.  It  is  the 
miracle  of  the  porter.  .  .  .  When  the  sergeant  and  his 
colleagues  come  on  the  scene  some  hours  later,  an  empty 
can  with  slight  traces  of  froth  upon  the  sides,  "like 
beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim,"  constitutes  the 
remaining  flimsy  evidence  of  the  great  thing  that  has 
happened. 

The  mind  of  John  Brennan  was  more  or  less  foreign 

36 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     37 

to  this  aspect  of  life  amongst  the  fields.  He  would  be 
the  very  last  to  realize  that  such  were  essential  happen- 
ings in  the  life  of  his  native  village  of  Garradrimna. 
On  his  first  Sunday  at  home  he  went  walking,  after  sec- 
ond Mass,  through  the  green  woods  which  were  the  west- 
ern boundary  of  the  village.  His  thoughts  were  dwell- 
ing upon  Father  O'Keeffe's  material  interpretation  of 
the  Gospel  story.  At  last  they  eddied  into  rest  as  he 
moved  there  along  the  bright  path  between  the  tall 
trees,  so  quiet  as  with  adoration. 

When  he  came  by  that  portion  of  the  demesne  wall, 
which  lay  at  the  back  of  Brannagan's  public-house,  he 
heard  a  scurrying  of  rabbits  among  the  undergrowth. 
In  the  sudden  hush  which  followed  he  heard  a  familiar 
voice  raised  in  a  tense  whisper. 

"Hurry,  quick!  quick!  There's  some  one  in  black 
coming  up  the  path.  It  must  be  Sergeant  McGoldrick. 
The  can!  the  can!" 

His  cheeks  were  suddenly  flushed  by  a  feeling  of 
shame,  for  it  was  his  father  who  had  spoken.  He  stood 
behind  a  wide  beech  tree  in  mere  confusion  and  not 
that  he  desired  to  see  what  was  going  forward. 

His  father,  Ned  Brennan,  bent  down  like  an  acrobat 
across  the  demesne  wall  and  took  the  can  from  some  one 
beneath.  Then  he  ran  down  through  the  undergrowth, 
the  brown  froth  of  the  porter  dashing  out  upon  his 
trousers,  his  quick  eyes  darting  hither  and  thither  like 
those  of  a  frightened  animal.  But  he  did  not  catch 
sight  of  John,  who  saw  him  raise  the  can  to  his 
lips. 

It  was  a  new  experience  for  John  Brennan  to  see  his 
father  thus  spending  the  Sabbath  in  this  dark  place  in 


38     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  woods,  while  out  in  the  young  summer  day  spilled 
and  surged  all  the  wonder  of  the  world.  ...  A  sort  of 
pity  claimed  possession  of  him  as  he  took  a  different  way 
among  the  cathedral  trees.  .  .  .  His  father  was  the 
queer  man,  queer  surely,  and  moving  lonely  in  his  life. 
He  was  not  the  intimate  of  his  son  nor  of  the  woman 
who  was  his  son's  mother.  He  had  never  seemed  greatly 
concerned  to  do  things  towards  the  respect  and  honor  of 
that  woman.  And  yet  John  Brennan  could  not  forget 
that  he  was  his  father. 

Just  now  another  incident  came  to  divert  his  mood. 
He  encountered  an  ancient  dryad  flitting  through  the 
woods.  This  was  Padna  Padna,  a  famous  character  in 
Garradrimna.  For  all  his  name  was  that  of  the  great 
apostle  of  his  country,  his  affinities  were  pagan.  Al- 
though he  was  eighty,  he  got  drunk  every  day  and  never 
went  to  Mass.  In  his  early  days  he  had  been  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  little  place  and  the  owner  of  a  hackney  car. 
When  the  posting  business  fell  into  decline,  he  had  had 
to  sell  the  little  place  and  the  horse  and  car,  and  the 
purchase  money  had  been  left  for  his  support  with  a 
distant  relative  in  the  village.  He  was  a  striking  figure 
as  he  moved  abroad  in  the  disguise  of  a  cleric  not  alto- 
gether devoted  to  the  service  of  God.  He  always 
dressed  in  solemn  black,  and  his  coat  was  longer  than 
that  of  a  civilian.  His  great  hat  gave  him  a  downcast 
look,  as  of  one  who  has  peered  into  the  Mysteries.  His 
face  was  wasted  and  small,  and  this,  with  his  partially 
blinded  eyes  behind  the  sixpenny  spectacles,  gave  him 
a  certain  asceticism  of  look.  Yet  it  was  the  way  he 
carried  himself  rather  than  his  general  aspect  which 
created  this  impression  of  him.  He  was  very  small, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     39 

and  shrinking  daily.  His  eyes  were  always  dwelling 
upon  his  little  boots  in  meditation.  Were  you  unaware 
of  his  real  character,  you  might  foolishly  imagine  that 
he  was  thinking  of  high,  immortal  things,  but  he  was 
in  reality  thinking  of  drink. 

This  was  his  daily  program.  He  got  up  early  and, 
on  most  mornings,  crossed  the  street  to  Bartle  Donohoe, 
the  village  barber,  for  a  shave.  Bartle  would  be  wait- 
ing for  him,  his  dark  eye  hanging  critically  as  he  tested 
the  razor  edge  against  the  skin  of  his  thumb.  The  little 
blade  would  be  glinting  in  the  sunlight.  .  .  .  Sometimes 
Bartle  would  become  possessed  of  the  thought  that  the 
morning  might  come  when,  after  an  unusually  hard 
carouse  on  the  previous  night,  he  would  not  be  respon- 
sible for  all  his  razor  might  do,  that  it  might  suddenly 
leap  out  of  his  shivering  hand  and  make  a  shocking  end 
of  Padna  Padna  and  all  his  tyranny.  .  .  .  But  his  repu- 
tation as  the  drunkard  with  the  steadiest  hand  in  Gar- 
radrimna  had  to  be  maintained.  If  he  did  not  shave 
Padna  Padna  the  fact  would  be  published  in  every 
house. 

"Bartle  Donohoe  was  too  shaky  to  shave  me  this 
morning ;  too  shaky,  I  say.  Ah,  he 's  going  wrong,  going 
wrong!  And  will  ye  tell  me  this  now?  How  is  it  that 
if  ye  buy  a  clock,  a  little  ordinary  clock  for  a  couple  of 
shillings,  and  give  it  an  odd  wind,  it'll  go  right;  but  a 
man,  a  great,  clever  man '11  go  wrong  no  matter  what 
way  ye  strive  for  to  manage  him  ? ' ' 

If  Bartle  shaved  him,  Padna  Padna  would  take  his 
barber  over  to  Tommy  Williams 's  to  give  him  a  drink, 
which  was  the  only  payment  he  ever  expected.  After 
this,  his  first  one,  Padna  Padna  would  say,  "Not  going 


40     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  drink  any  more  to-day,"  to  which  Bartle  Donohoe 
would  reply  sententiously :  "D'ye  tell  me  so?  Well, 
well!  Is  that  a  fact?" 

Then,  directly,  he  would  proceed  to  take  a  little  walk 
before  his  breakfast,  calling  at  every  house  of  entertain- 
ment and  referring  distantly  to  the  fact  that  Bartle 
Donohoe  had  a  shake  in  his  hand  this  morning.  "A 
shame  for  him,  and  he  an  only  son  and  all ! " 

And  thus  did  he  spend  the  days  of  his  latter  end,  pac- 
ing the  sidewalks  of  Garradrimna,  entering  blindly  into 
pubs  and  discussing  the  habits  of  every  one  save  himself. 

He  was  great  in  the  field  of  reminiscence. 

"Be  the  Holy  Farmer!"  he  would  say,  "but  there's 
no  drinking  nowadays  tost  what  used  to  be  longo. 
There's  no  decent  fellows,  and  that's  a  fact.  Ah,  they 
were  the  decent  fellows  longo.  You  couldn't  go  driving 
them  a  place  but  they'd  all  come  home  mad.  And  sure 
I  often  didn't  know  where  I'd  be  driving  them,  I'd  be 
that  bloody  drunk.  Aye,  decent  fellows !  Sure  they  're 
all  dead  now  through  the  power  and  the  passion  of 
drink." 

So  this  was  the  one  whom  John  Brennan  now  encoun- 
tered amid  the  green  beauty  of  the  woodland  places. 
To  him  Padna  Padna  was  one  of  the  immortals.  Suc- 
ceeding holiday  after  succeeding  holiday  had  he  met  the 
ancient  man,  fading  surely  but  never  wholly  declining 
or  disappearing.  The  impulse  which  had  prompted  him 
to  speak  to  Marse  Prendergast  a  few  days  previously 
now  made  him  say:  "How  are  you,  old  man?"  to  Padna 
Padna. 

The  venerable  drunkard,  by  way  of  immediate  reply, 
tapped  upon  his  lips  with  his  fingers  and  then  blew  upon 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     41 

his  fingers  and  whistled  in  cogitation.  It  was  with  his 
ears  that  he  saw,  and  he  possessed  an  amazing  faculty 
for  distinguishing  between  the  different  voices  of  dif- 
ferent people. 

"John  Brennan!"  he  at  length  exclaimed,  in  his  high, 
thin  voice.  "Is  that  John  Brennan?" 

"It  is,  the  very  one." 

' '  And  how  are  ye,  John  ? ' ' 

"Very  well,  indeed,  Padna.    How  are  you?" 

"Poorly  only.  Ah,  John,  this  is  the  hard  day  on  me 
always,  the  Sunday.  I  declare  to  me  God  I  detest  Sun- 
day. Here  am  I  marching  through  the  woods  since 
seven  and  I  having  no  drink  whatever.  That  cursed 
Sergeant  McGoldrick !  May  he  have  a  tongue  upon  him 
some  day  the  color  of  an  ould  brick  and  he  in  the  seventh 
cavern  of  Hell!  Did  ye  see  Ned?" 

The  sudden  and  tense  question  was  not  immediately 
intelligible  to  John  Brennan.  There  were  so  many  of 
the  name  about  Garradrimna.  Padna  Padna  pranced 
impatiently  as  he  waited  for  an  answer. 

"Ah,  is  it  letting  on  you  are  that  you  don't  know  who 
I  mean,  and  you  with  your  grand  ecclesiastical  learning 
and  all  to  that.  'Tis  your  own  father,  Ned  Brennan, 
that  I  mean.  I  was  in  a  'join'  with  him  to  get  a  can 
out  of  Brannigan's.  Mebbe  you  didn't  see  him  any- 
where down  through  the  wood,  for  I  have  an  idea  that 
he's  going  to  swindle  me.  Did  ye  see  him,  I'm  asking 
you?" 

Even  still  John  did  not  reply,  for  something  seemed 
to  have  caught  him  by  the  throat  and  was  robbing  him 
of  the  power  of  speech.  The  valley,  with  its  vast  malev- 
olence of  which  his  mother  had  so  recently  warned  him, 


42     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

was  now  driving  him  to  say  something  which  was  not 
true. 

"No,  Padna,  I  did  not  see  him!"  he  at  last  managed 
to  jerk  out. 

"Mebbe  he  didn't  manage  to  get  me  drink  for  me 
yet,  and  mebbe  he  did  get  it  and  is  after  drinking  it 
somewhere  in  the  shadows  of  the  trees  where  he  couldn't 
be  seen.  But  what  am  I  saying  at  all  ?  Sure  if  he  was 
drinking  it  there  before  me,  where  you're  standing,  I 
couldn't  see  him,  me  eyes  is  that  bad.  Isn't  it  the  poor 
and  the  hard  case  to  be  blinded  to  such  an  extent?" 

John  Brennan  felt  no  pity,  so  horrible  was  the  ex- 
pression that  now  struggled  into  those  dimming  eyes. 
He  thought  of  a  puzzling  fact  of  his  parentage.  Why 
was  it  that  his  mother  had  never  been  able  to  save  his 
father  from  the  ways  of  degradation  into  which  he  had 
fallen,  the  low  companions,  the  destruction  of  the  val- 
ley; from  all  of  which  to  even  the  smallest  extent  she 
was  now  so  anxious  to  save  her  son? 

Padna  Padna  was  still  blowing  upon  his  fingers  and 
regretting : 

"Now  isn't  it  the  poor  and  the  hard  case  that  there's 
no  decent  fellows  left  in  the  world  at  all.  To  think 
that  I  can  meet  never  a  one  now,  me  that  spent  so  much 
of  me  life  driving  decent  fellows,  driving,  driving. 
John,  do  ye  know  what  it  is  now  ?  You  're  after  putting 
me  in  mind  of  Henry  Shannon.  He  was  the  decentest 
fellow!  Many's  the  time  I  drove  him  down  to  your 
grandmother's  place  when  he  wouldn't  have  a  foot  un- 
der him  to  leave  Garradrimna.  That  was  when  your 
mother  was  a  young  girl,  John.  Hee,  hee,  hee!'' 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     43 

'John  could  not  divine  the  reasons  for  the  old  man's 
glee,  nor  did  he  perceive  that  the  mind  of  Padna  Padna, 
even  in  the  darkening  stages  of  its  end,  was  being  lit  by 
a  horrible  sneer  at  him  and  the  very  fact  of  his  ex- 
istence. Instead  he  grew  to  feel  rather  a  stir  of  compas- 
sion for  this  old  man,  with  his  shattered  conception  of 
happiness  such  as  it  was,  burning  his  mind  with  mem- 
ories while  he  rode  down  so  queerly  to  the  grave. 

As  he  moved  away  through  the  long,  peaceful  aisles 
of  the  trees,  his  soul  was  filled  with  gray  questioning 
because  of  what  he  had  just  seen  of  his  father  and  be- 
cause of  the  distant  connection  of  his  mother  with  the 
incident.  Why  was  it  at  all  that  his  mother  had  never 
been  able  to  save  his  father? 

As  he  emerged  from  the  last  circle  of  the  woods  there 
seemed  to  be  a  shadow  falling  low  over  the  fields.  He 
went  with  no  eagerness  towards  the  house  of  his  mother. 
This  was  Sunday,  and  it  was  her  custom  to  spend  a  large 
portion  of  the  Sabbath  in  speaking  of  her  neighbors. 
But  she  would  never  say  anything  about  his  father,  even 
though  Ned  Brennan  would  not  be  in  the  house. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JUST  now  there  happened  something  of  such  unusual 
importance  in  the  valley  that  Mrs.  Brennan  be- 
came excited  about  it.  The  assistant  teacher  of  Tulla- 
hanogue  Girls'  School,  Miss  Mary  Jane  O 'Donovan,  had 
left,  and  a  new  assistant  was  coming  in  her  stead.  Miss 
O 'Donovan  had  always  given  the  making  of  her  things 
to  Mrs.  Brennan,  so  she  spoke  of  her,  now  that  she  was 
gone,  as  having  been  "a  very  nice  girl."  Just  yet,  of 
course,  she  was  not  in  a  position  to  say  as  much  about 
the  girl  who  was  coming.  But  the  entry  of  a  new  per- 
son into  the  life  of  the  valley  was  a  great  event !  Such 
new  things  could  be  said ! 

On  Monday  morning  Mrs.  Brennan  called  her  son 
into  the  sewing-room  to  describe  the  imminent  nature 
of  the  event.  The  sense  of  depression  that  had  come 
upon  him  during  the  previous  day  did  not  become 
averted  as  he  listened. 

What  an  extraordinary  mixture  this  woman  who  was 
his  mother  now  appeared  before  his  eyes!  And  yet  he 
could  not  question  her  in  any  action  or  in  any  speech; 
she  was  his  mother,  and  so  everything  that  fell  from  her 
must  be  taken  in  a  mood  of  noble  and  respectful  accept- 
ance. But  she  was  without  charity,  and  as  he  saw  her 
in  this  guise  he  was  compelled  to  think  of  his  father  and 
the  incident  of  yesterday,  and  he  could  not  help  wonder- 
44 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     45 

ing.  He  suddenly  realized  that  what  was  happening 
presently  in  this  room  was  happening  in  every  house 
down  the  valley.  Even  before  her  coming  she  was  being 
condemned.  It  was  beneath  the  shadow  of  this  already 
created  cloud  she  would  have  to  live  and  move  and  earn 
her  little  living  in  the  schoolhouse  of  Tullahanogue. 
John  Brenrian  began  to  have  some  pity  for  the  girl. 

Ned  Brerman  now  appeared  at  the  door  leading  to 
the  kitchen  and  beckoned  to  his  wife.  She  went  at  his 
calling,  and  John  noticed  that  at  her  return  some  part 
of  her  had  fallen  away.  His  father  went  from  the  house 
whistling  at  a  pitch  that  was  touched  with  delight. 

''Where  is  my  father  bound  for?" 

"He's  gone  to  Garradrimna,  John,  to  order  lead  for 
the  roof  of  the  school.  The  valley  behind  the  chimney 
is  leaking  again  and  he  has  to  cobble  it.  'Tis  the  great 
bother  he  gets  with  that  roof,  whatever  sort  it  is.  Isn't 
it  a  wonder  now  that  Father  O'Keeffe  wouldn't  put  a 
new  one  on  it,  and  all  the  money  he  gets  so  handy.  .  .  ? " 

"My  father  seems  to  be  always  at  that  roof.  He  used 
to  be  at  it  when  I  was  going  to  school  there." 

The  words  of  her  son  came  to  Mrs.  Brennan's  ears 
with  a  sound  of  sad  complaint.  It  caused  her  to  glimpse 
momentarily  all  the  villainy  of  Ned  Brennan  towards 
her  through  all  the  years,  and  of  how  she  had  borne  it 
for  the  sake  of  John.  And  here  was  John  before  her 
now  becoming  reverently  magnified  in  that  part  of  her 
mind  which  was  a  melting  tenderness.  It  was  him  she 
must  now  save  from  the  valley  which  had  ruined  her 
man.  Thus  was  she  fearful  again  and  the  heart  within 
her  caused  to  become  troubled  and  to  rush  to  and  fro 
in  her  breast  like  rushing  water.  Then,  as  if  her  whole 


46     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

will  was  sped  by  some  fearful  ecstasy,  she  went  on  to 
talk  in  her  accustomed  way  of  every  one  around  her,  in- 
cluding the  stranger  who  had  not  yet  come  to  the  val- 
ley. 

It  was  on  the  evening  of  this  day  that  Rebecca  Kerr. 
the  new  assistant  teacher,  came  through  the  village  of 
Garradrimna  to  the  valley  of  Tullahanogue.  Paddy 
McCann  drove  McDermott  's  hackney  car  down  past  the 
old  castle  of  the  De  Lacys.  It  carried  her  as  passenger 
from  Mullaghowen,  with  her  battered  trunk  strapped 
over  the  well.  The  group  of  spitting  idlers  crowding 
around  Brannagan's  loudly  asserted  so  much  as  Paddy 
McCann  and  his  cargo  loomed  out  of  the  shadows  be- 
neath the  old  castle  and  swung  into  the  amazing  reali- 
ties of  the  village.  It  was  just  past  ten  o'clock  and 
the  mean  place  now  lay  amid  the  enclosing  twilight. 
The  conjunctive  thirsts  for  drink  and  gossip  which  come 
at  this  hour  had  attacked  the  ejected  topers,  and  their 
tongues  began  to  water  about  the  morsel  now  placed 
before  them. 

A  new  schoolmistress,  well,  well !  Didn  't  they  change 
them  shocking  often  in  Tullahanogue?  And  quare- 
looking  things  they  were  too,  every  one  of  them.  And 
here  was  another  one,  not  much  to  look  at  either.  They 
said  this  as  she  came  past.  And  what  was  her  name? 
"Kerr  is  her  name!"  said  some  one  who  had  heard  it 
from  the  very  lips  of  Father  O'Keeffe  himself. 

"Rebecca  Kerr  is  her  name,"  affirmed  Farrell  Mc- 
Guinness,  who  had  just  left  a  letter  for  her  at  the  Pres- 
bytery. 

"Rebecca  what?  Kerr — Kerr — Kerr,  is  it?"  sput- 
tered Padna  Padna;  "what  for  wouldn't  it  be  Carr  now, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     47 

just  common  and  simple?  But  of  course  Kerr  has  a 
ring  of  the  quality  about  it.  Kerr,  be  God ! ' ' 

These  were  the  oracles  of  Garradrimna  who  were  now 
speaking  of  her  thus.  But  she  had  no  thought  of  them 
at  all  as  she  glanced  hurriedly  at  the  shops  and  puzzled 
her  brains  to  guess  where  the  best  draper's  shop  might 
be.  She  had  a  vague,  wondering  notion  as  to  where  she 
might  get  all  those  little  things  so  necessary  for  a  girl. 
She  had  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  herself  standing  outside 
one  of  those  worn  counters  she  was  very  certain  existed 
somewhere  in  the  village,  talking  ever  so  much  talk  with 
the  faded  girl  who  dispensed  the  vanities  of  other  days, 
or  else  exchanging  mild  confidences  with  the  vulgar  and 
ample  mistress  of  the  shop,  who  was  sure  to  be  always 
floating  about  the  place  immensely.  Yes,  just  there  was 
the  very  shop  with  its  brave  selection  from  the  fashions 
of  yester-year  in  the  fly-blown  windows. 

And  there  was  the  Post  Office  through  which  her  let- 
ters to  link  her  with  the  outer  world  would  come  and 
go.  She  quickly  figured  the  old  bespectacled  postmis- 
tress, already  blinded  partially,  and  bent  from  constant, 
anxious  scrutiny,  poring  exultantly  over  the  first  let- 
ters that  might  be  sent  to  "Miss  Rebecca  Kerr,"  and 
examining  the  postmark.  Then  the  quality  and  gender 
of  the  writing,  and  being  finally  troubled  exceedingly 
as  to  the  person  it  could  have  come  from — sister,  mother, 
brother,  father,  friend,  or  "boy."  Even  although  the 
tall  candles  of  Romance  had  long  since  guttered  and 
gone  out  amid  the  ashes  of  her  mind  the  assaulting 
suspicion  that  it  was  from  "a  boy"  would  drive  her  to 
turn  the  letter  in  her  hand  and  take  a  look  at  the  flap. 
Then  the  temptation  that  was  a  part  of  her  life  would 


48     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

prove  too  strong  for  her  and  a  look  of  longing  would 
come  into  the  dull  eyes  as  she  went  hobbling  into  the 
kitchen  to  place  it  over  the  boiling  kettle  and  so  em- 
bark it  upon  its  steamy  voyage  to  discovery.  In  a  few 
minutes  she  would  be  reading  it,  her  hands  trembling 
as  she  chuckled  in  her  obscene  glee  at  all  the  noble 
sentiments  it  might  contain.  The  subsequent  return  of 
the  letter  to  the  envelope  after  the  addition  of  some 
gum  from  a  penny  bottle  if  the  old  sticking  did  not 
suffice.  Her  interludiary  sigh  of  satisfaction  when  she 
remembered  that  one  could  re-stick  so  many  opened  en- 
velopes with  a  penny  bottle  of  gum  by  using  it  econom- 
ically. The  inevitable  result  of  this  examination,  a  su- 
perior look  of  wisdom  upon  the  withered  face  when  the 
new  schoolmistress,  Rebecca  Kerr,  came  for  the  first 
time  into  the  office  to  ask  for  a  letter  from  her 
love.  .  .  .  But  so  far  in  her  life  she  had  formed  no 
deep  attachment. 

It  was  thus  and  thus  that  Rebecca  Kerr  ran  through 
her  mind  a  few  immediate  sketchy  realizations  of  this 
village  in  Ireland.  She  had  lived  in  others,  and  this 
one  could  not  be  so  very  different.  .  .  .  There  now  was 
the  butcher's  stall,  kept  filthily,  where  she  might  buy  her 
bit  of  beef  or  mutton  occasionally.  She  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  victualler  standing  with  his  dirty  wife 
amid  the  strong-smelling  meat.  The  name  above  the 
door  was  that  of  the  publichouse  immediately  beside  it. 
A  little  further  on,  upon  the  same  side,  was  the  news- 
agent's and  stationer's,  where  they  sold  sweets  and 
everything.  It  was  here  she  might  buy  her  notepaper 
to  write  to  her  own  people  in  Donegal,  or  else  to  some 
of  her  college  friends  with  whom  she  still  kept  up  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     49 

correspondence.  And  here  also  she  might  treat  herself, 
on  rare  occasions,  to  a  box  of  cheap  chocolates,  or  to 
some  of  the  injurious,  colored  sweets  which  always  gave 
her  the  toothache,  presenting  the  most  of  them,  per- 
haps, to  some  child  to  whom  she  had  taken  a  fancy. 

By  little  bits  like  these,  which  formed  a  series  of 
flashes,  she  saw  some  aspects  of  the  life  she  might  lead 
here.  Each  separate  flash  left  something  of  an  impres- 
sion before  it  went  out  of  her  mind. 

The  jingling  car  swung  on  past  the  various  groups 
upon  the  street,  each  group  twisting  its  head  as  one  man 
to  observe  the  spectacle  of  her  passing.  "That's  the 
new  schoolmistress!"  "There  she  is,  begad!"  "I 
heard  Paddy  McCann  saying  she  was  coming  this  eve- 
ning ! ' '  She  was  now  in  line  with  the  famous  house  of 
Tommy  Williams,  the  gombeen-man.  She  knew  from 
the  look  of  it  that  it  was  here  she  must  buy  her  few 
groceries,  for  this  was  the  principal  house  in  Garra- 
drimna  and,  even  so  far  as  she,  the  octopus  of  Gom- 
beenism  was  sure  to  extend  itself.  To  be  sure,  the 
gombeen-man  would  be  the  father  of  a  family,  for  it 
is  the  clear  duty  of  such  pillars  of  the  community  to 
rear  up  a  long  string  of  patriots.  If  those  children 
happened  to  be  of  school-going  age,  it  was  certain  they 
would  not  be  sent  to  even  the  most  convenient  school 
unless  the  teachers  dealt  in  the  shop.  This  is  how  gom- 
beenism  is  made  to  exercise  control  over  National  Ed- 
ucation. Anyhow  Rebecca  Kerr  was  very  certain  that 
she  must  enter  the  various-smelling  shop  to  discuss  the 
children  with  the  gombeen-man's  wife. 

It  was  indeed  a  dreary  kind  of  life  that  she  would  be 
compelled  to  lead  in  this  place,  and,  as  she  passed  the 


50     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

pretty  chapel,  which  seemed  to  stand  up  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven  as  excuse  for  the  affront  that  was  Garradrimna, 
she  had  a  strange  notion  how  she  must  go  there  some- 
times to  find  respite  from  the  relentless  crush  of  it  all. 
On  bitter  evenings,  when  her  mind  should  ring  with  the 
mean  tumults  of  the  life  around  her,  it  was  there  only 
she  might  go  and,  slipping  in  through  the  dim  vestibule 
where  there  were  many  mortuary  cards  to  remind  her  of 
all  the  dead,  she  would  walk  quickly  to  the  last  pew  and, 
bending  her  throbbing  head,  pour  out  her  soul  in  prayer 
with  the  aid  of  her  little  mother-of-pearl  rosary.  .  .  . 
They  had  gone  a  short  distance  past  the  chapel  and 
along  the  white  road  towards  the  valley. 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  Paddy  MeCann. 

She  got  down  from  the  car  wearily,  and  MeCann 
carried  her  battered  trunk  into  the  house  of  Sergeant 
McGoldrick  which  had  been  assigned  as  her  lodging  by 
Father  O'Keeffe.  He  emerged  with  a  leer  of  expecta- 
tion upon  his  countenance,  and  she  gave  him  a  shilling 
from  her  little  possessions.  At  the  door  she  was  com- 
pelled to  introduce  herself. 

"So  you  are  the  new  teacher.  Well,  begad!  The 
missus  is  up  in  the  village.  Come  in.  Begad!" 

He  stood  there,  a  big,  ungainly  man,  at  his  own  door 
as  he  gave  the  invitation,  a  squalling  baby  in  his  arms, 
and  in  went  Rebecca  Kerr,  into  the  sitting-room  where 
Mrs.  McGoldrick  made  clothes  for  the  children.  The 
sergeant  proceeded  to  do  his  best  to  be  entertaining. 
She  knew  the  tribe.  He  remained  smoking  his  great 
black  pipe  and  punctuated  the  squalls  of  the  baby  by 
spitting  huge  volumes  of  saliva  which  hit  the  fender 
with  dull  thuds. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     51 

"It's  a  grand  evening  in  the  country,"  said  Sergeant 
McGoldrick. 

"Yes,  a  nice  evening  surely,"  said  Rebecca  Kerr. 

"Oh,  it  was  a  grand,  lovely  day  in  the  country,  the 
day.  I  was  out  in  the  country  all  through  the  day.  I 
was  collecting  the  census  of  the  crops,  so  I  was;  a 
difficult  and  a  critical  job,  I  can  tell  you!" 

With  an  air  of  pride  he  took  down  the  books  of  lists 
and  showed  her  the  columns  of  names  and  particu- 
lars. ...  It  was  stupidly  simple.  Yet  here  was  this 
hulk  of  a  man  expanding  his  chest  because  of  his  child- 
ish achievement.  He  had  even  stopped  smoking  and 
spitting  to  give  space  to  his  own  amazement,  and  the 
baby  had  ceased  mewling  to  marvel  in  infantile  wonder 
at  the  spacious  cleverness  of  her  da. 

After  nearly  half  an  hour  of  this  performance  Mrs. 
McGoldrick  bustled  into  the  room.  She  was  a  coarse- 
looking  woman,  whose  manner  had  evidently  been  made 
even  more  harsh  by  the  severe  segregation  to  which  the 
wives  of  policemen  are  subjected.  Her  voice  was  loud 
and  unmusical,  and  it  appeared  to  Rebecca  from  the 
very  first  that  not  even  the  appalling  cleverness  of  her 
husband  was  a  barrier  to  her  strong  government  of  her 
own  house.  The  sergeant  disappeared  immediately, 
taking  the  baby  with  him,  and  left  the  women  to  their 
own  company.  Mrs.  McGoldrick  had  seen  the  battered, 
many-corded  trunk  in  the  hall-way,  and  she  now  made 
a  remark  which  was,  perhaps,  natural  enough  for  a 
woman : 

' '  You  haven't  much  luggage  anyway ! ' '  was  what  she 
said. 

"No!"  replied  Rebecca  dully. 


52     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Then  she  allowed  her  head  to  droop  for  what  seemed 
a  long  while,  during  all  of  which  she  was  acutely  con- 
scious that  the  woman  by  her  side  was  staring  at  her, 
forming  impressions  of  her,  summing  her  up. 

"I  don't  think  you're  as  tall  as  Miss  0 'Donovan  was, 
and  you  haven't  as  nice  hair!" 

Rebecca  made  no  comment  of  any  kind  upon  this 
candor,  but  now  that  the  way  had  been  opened  Mrs. 
McGoldrick  poured  out  a  flood  of  information  regarding 
the  late  assistant  of  the  valley  school.  She  was  reduced 
to  little  pieces  and,  as  it  were,  cremated  in  the  furnace 
of  this  woman's  mind  until  tiny  specks  of  the  ashes  of 
her  floated  about  and  danced  and  scintillated  before  the 
tired  eyes  of  Rebecca  Kerr. 

As  the  heavier  dusk  of  the  short,  warm  night  began  to 
creep  into  the  little  room  her  soul  sank  slowly  lower. 
She  was  hungry  now  and  lonely.  In  the  mildest  way 
she  distantly  suggested  a  cup  of  tea,  but  Mrs.  Mc- 
Goldrick at  once  resented  this  uncalled-for  disturbance 
of  her  harangue  by  bringing  out  what  was  probably 
meant  to  be  taken  as  the  one  admirable  point  in  the 
other  girl's  character. 

"Miss  O 'Donovan  used  always  get  her  own  tea." 

But  the  desolating  silence  of  Rebecca  at  length  drove 
her  towards  the  kitchen,  and  she  returned,  after  what 
seemed  an  endless  period,  with  some  greasy-looking 
bread,  a  cup  without  a  handle,  and  a  teapot  from  which 
the  tea  dribbled  in  agony  on  to  the  tablecloth  through 
a  wound  in  its  side. 

The  sickening  taste  of  the  stuff  that  came  out  of  the 
teapot  only  added  to  Rebecca's  sinking  feeling.  Her 
thoughts  crept  ever  downward.  ...  At  last  there  came 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     53 

a  blessed  desire  for  sleep — sleep  and  forgetfulness  of 
this  day  and  the  morrow.  Her  head  was  already  begin- 
ning to  spin  as  she  inquired  for  her  room. 

"Your  room?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  McGoldrick  in  harsh 
surprise.  "Why,  'tis  upstairs.  There's  only  two 
rooms  there,  myself  and  the  sergeant's  and  the  lodger's 
room — that's  yours.  I  hadn't  time  this  week  back  to 
make  the  bed  since  Miss  O 'Donovan  left,  but  of  course 
you'll  do  that  for  yourself.  The  sergeant  is  gone  up  to 
the  barracks,  so  I  '11  have  to  help  you  carry  up  your  box, 
as  I  suppose  you'll  be  wanting  to  get  out  some  of  your 
things." 

It  was  a  cruelly  hard  job  getting  the  trunk  up  the 
steep  staircase,  but  between  them  they  managed  it.  Re- 
becca was  not  disappointed  by  the  bare,  ugly  room. 
Mrs.  McGoldrick  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  stood 
in  an  attitude  of  expectation.  Even  in  the  present  dull 
state  of  her  mind  Rebecca  saw  that  her  landlady  was, 
with  tense  curiosity,  awaiting  the  opening  of  the  box 
which  held  her  poor  belongings.  .  .  .  Then  something 
of  the  combative,  selfish  attitude  of  the  woman  to  her 
kind  stirred  within  her,  and  she  bravely  resolved  to 
fight,  for  a  short  space,  this  prying  woman  who  was  try- 
ing to  torment  her  soul. 

She  looked  at  the  untidied  bed  with  the  well-used 
sheets.  .  .  .  What  matter?  It  was  only  the  place 
whereon  the  body  of  another  poor  tortured  creature  like 
herself  had  lain.  She  would  bear  with  this  outrage 
against  her  natural  delicacy. 

In  perfect  silence  she  took  off  her  skirt  and  blouse 
and  corset.  She  let  fall  her  long,  heavy  hair  and,  be- 
fore the  broken  looking-glass,  began  to  dally  wearily 


54      THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

with  its  luxuriance.  This  hair  was  very  fair  and  price- 
less, and  it  was  hers  who  had  not  great  possessions.  Her 
shining  neck  and  blossomy  breasts  showed  as  a  pattern 
in  ivory  against  the  background  that  it  made.  .  .  .  Some 
man,  she  thought,  would  like  to  see  her  now  and  love 
her  maybe.  Beyond  this  vision  of  herself  she  could  see 
the  ugly,  anxious  face  of  the  woman  behind  her.  She 
could  feel  the  discord  of  that  woman's  thoughts  with 
the  wandering  strands  of  withering  hair. 

No  word  had  passed  between  them  since  they  came 
together  into  the  room,  and  Mrs.  McGoldrick,  retreating 
from  the  situation  which  had  been  created,  left  with 
abruptness,  closing  the  door  loudly  behind  her. 

With  as  much  haste  as  she  could  summon,  Rebecca 
took  off  her  shoes  and  got  her  night-gown  out  of  the 
trunk.  Then  she  threw  herself  into  the  bed.  She  put 
out  the  light  and  fumbled  in  her  faded  vanity  bag  for 
her  little  mother-of-pearl  rosary.  There  was  a  strange 
excitement  upon  her,  even  in  the  final  moments  of  her 
escape,  and  soon  a  portion  of  her  pillow  was  wet  with 
tears.  Between  loud  sobs  arose  the  sound  of  her  prayers 
ascending : 

"Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace,  the  Lord  is  with  thee; 
blessed  art  thou  amongst  women,  and  blessed  is  the  fruit 
of  thy  womb,  Jesus.  .  .  .  Hail,  Mary,  full  of  grace,  the 
Lord  is  with  thee;  blessed  art  thou  .  .  .  Hail,  Mary, 
full  of  grace.  ..." 


CHAPTER  VII 

AT  tea-time  Mrs.  Brennan  was  still  talking  to  John 
of  the  girl  who  was  coming  to  the  valley.  Out- 
side the  day  was  still  full  of  the  calm  glory  of  summer. 
He  went  to  the  window  and  looked  down  upon  the  clean, 
blue  stretch  of  the  little  lake.  ...  He  had  growm  weary 
of  his  mother's  talk.  What  possible  interest  could  he 
have  in  this  unknown  girl?  He  took  a  book  from  a 
parcel  on  the  table.  With  this  volume  in  his  hand  and 
reading  it,  as  he  might  his  breviary  at  some  future 
time,  he  went  out  and  down  towards  the  lake.  On  his 
way  he  met  a  few  men  moving  to  and  from  their  tasks 
in  the  fields.  He  bade  them  the  time  of  day  and  spoke 
about  the  beauty  of  the  afternoon.  As  they  replied  a 
curious  kind  of  smile  played  around  their  lips,  and 
there  was  not  one  who  failed  to  notice  his  enviable  con- 
dition of  idleness. 

"Indeed  'tis  you  that  has  the  fine  times!"  "Indeed 
you  might  say  'tis  you  that  has  the  fine  times ! "  ' '  Now 
isn't  the  learning  the  grand  thing,  to  say  that  when  you 
have  it  in  your  head  you  need  never  do  a  turn  with 
your  hands  ? ' ' 

Their  petty  comments  had  the  effect  of  filling  him 
with  a  distracting  sense  of  irritation,  and  it  was  some 
time  before  he  could  pick  up  any  continued  interest  in 
the  book.  It  was  the  story  of  a  young  priest,  such  as 
he  might  expect  to  be  in  a  few  years.  Suddenly  it  ap- 
55 


56     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

peared  remarkable  that  he  should  he  reading  this  fore- 
shadowing of  his  future.  That  he  should  be  seeing  him- 
self with  all  his  ideas  translated  into  reality  and  his 
training  changed  into  the  work  for  which  he  had  been 
trained.  Strange  that  this  thought  should  have  come 
into  his  mind  with  smashing  force  here  now  and  at  this 
very  time.  Hitherto  his  future  had  appeared  as  a  thing 
apart  from  him,  but  now  it  seemed  intimately  bound  up 
with  everything  he  could  possibly  do. 

He  began  to  see  very  clearly  for  the  first  time  the 
reason  for  his  mother's  anxiety  to  keep  him  apart  from 
the  life  of  the  valley.  Did  it  spring  directly  from  her 
love  for  him.  or  was  it  merely  selfish  and  contributory 
to  her  pride?  The  whole  burden  of  her  talk  showed 
clearly  that  she  was  a  proud  woman.  He  could  never 
come  to  have  her  way  of  looking  at  things,  and  so  he 
now  felt  that  if  he  became  a  priest  it  was  she  and  not 
himself  who  would  have  triumphed.  .  .  .  He  was  still 
reading  the  book,  but  it  was  in  a  confused  way  and  with 
little  attention.  The  threads  of  the  story  had  become 
entangled  somehow  with  the  threads  of  his  own  story. 
.  .  .  Occasionally  his  own  personality  would  cease  to 
dominate  it,  and  the  lonely  woman  in  the  cottage,  his 
mother  sitting  in  silence  at  her  machine,  would  become 
the  principal  character.  .  .  .  The  hours  went  past  him 
as  he  pondered. 

The  evening  shadows  had  begun  to  steal  down  from 
the  hills.  The  western  sky  was  like  the  color  of  a  golden 
chalice.  Men  were  coming  home  weary  from  the  labor 
of  the  fields ;  cows  were  moving  towards  field  gates  with 
wise  looks  in  their  eyes  to  await  the  milking ;  the  young 
calves  were  lowing  for  their  evening  meal.  The  quiet 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     57 

fir  trees,  which  had  slept  all  through  the  day,  now 
seemed  to  think  of  some  forgotten  trust  and  were  like 
vigilant  sentries  all  down  through  the  valley  of  Tulla- 
hanogue. 

Suddenly  the  eyes  of  John  Brennan  were  held  by  a 
splendid  picture.  The  sweep  of  the  Hill  of  Annus  lay 
outlined  in  all  the  wonder  of  its  curve,  and,  on  the  ridge 
of  it,  moving  with  humped  body,  was  Shamesy  Golliher, 
the  most  famous  drunkard  of  the  valley.  He  passed 
like  a  figure  of  destruction  above  the  valley  against  the 
sunset.  John  smiled,  for  he  remembered  him  and  his 
habits,  as  both  were  known  far  and  wide.  He  was  now 
going  towards  a  certain  wood  where  the  rabbits  were 
plentiful.  His  snares  were  set  there.  The  thin,  pitiful 
cry  of  the  entrapped  creature  now  split  the  stillness, 
and  the  man  upon  the  sweep  of  the  world  began  to 
move  with  a  more  determined  stride.  .  .  .  John  Bren- 
nan, his  mind  quickening  towards  remembrance  of  in- 
cidents of  his  boyhood,  knew  that  the  cunning  of 
Shamesy  Golliher  had  triumphed  over  the  cunning  of 
the  rabbits.  Their  hot  little  eager  bodies  must  soon  be 
sold  for  eightpence  apiece  and  the  money  spent  on  por- 
ter in  Garradrimna.  It  was  strange  to  think  of  this 
being  the  ultimate  fate  of  the  rabbits  that  had  once 
frisked  so  innocently  over  the  green  spaces  of  the  woods. 
...  He  listened,  with  a  slight  turn  of  regret  stirring 
him,  until  the  last  squeal  had  been  absorbed  by  the  still- 
ness. Then  he  arose  and  prepared  to  move  away  from 
the  lake.  He  was  being  filled  by  a  deadly  feeling  of 
sadness.  Hitherto  the  continuous  adventure  of  adoles- 
cence had  sustained  him,  but  now  he  was  a  man  and 
thinking  of  his  future. 


58     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

On  his  way  across  the  sweep  of  the  hill  he  encountered 
Shamesy  Golliher.  The  famous  drunkard  was  laden 
with  the  rabbits  he  had  just  taken  from  the  snares. 
The  strength  of  his  thirst  had  also  begun  to  attack  him, 
so  that  by  reason  of  both  defects  his  legs  now  bent  un- 
der him  weakly  as  he  walked.  Yet  his  attitude  did  not 
suggest  defeat,  for  he  had  never  failed  to  maintain  his 
reputation  in  the  valley.  He  was  the  local  bard,  the 
satiric  poet  of  the  neighborhood.  He  was  the  only  in- 
habitant of  the  valley  who  continually  did  what  he 
pleased,  for  he  throve  within  the  traditional  Gaelic 
dread  of  satire.  No  matter  how  he  debased  himself  no 
man  or  woman  dared  talk  of  it  for  fear  they  might  be 
made  the  subject  of  a  song  to  be  ranted  in  the  tap- 
rooms of  Garradrimna.  And  he  was  not  one  to  respect 
the  feelings  of  those  whom  he  put  into  his  rimes,  for 
all  of  them  were  conceived  in  a  mood  of  ribald  and 
malignant  glee. 

"Me  sound  man  John,  how  are  ye?"  he  said,  extend- 
ing a  white,  nervous  hand. 

"I'm  very  well,  thanks;  and  how  are  you,  Shamesy?" 

"Ah,  just  only  middling.  I  don't  look  the  very  best. 
You'll  excuse  me  not  being  shaved.  But  that's  on  ac- 
count of  the  neuralgia.  God  blast  it!  it  has  me  near 
killed.  It  has  the  nerves  destroyed  on  me.  Look  at 
me  hand."  ...  It  was  the  idiosyncrasy  of  Shamesy 
Golliher  to  assert  that  drink  was  no  part  of  his  life. 

Immediately  he  dropped  into  his  accustomed  vein. 
He  gazed  down  the  Hill  of  Annus  and  found  material 
for  his  tongue.  There  were  the  daughters  of  Hughie 
Murtagh.  They  had  no  brother,  and  were  helping  their 
father  in  the  fields. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      59 

"Them's  the  men,  them's  the  men!"  said  Shamesy, 
"though  glory  be  to  God!  'twill  be  the  hard  case  with 
them  when  they  come  to  be  married,  for  sure  you 
wouldn't  like  to  marry  a  man,  now  would  you?  And 
for  pity's  sake  will  you  look  at  Oweneen  Kiernan,  the 
glutton !  I  hear  he  ate  five  loaves  at  the  ball  in  Ballina- 
mult;  and  as  sure  as  you're  there  that  powerful  re- 
past '11  have  to  be  made  the  material  for  a  song. ' ' 

A  loud  laugh  sprang  from  the  lips  of  Shamesy 
Golliher  and  floated  far  across  the  lake,  and  John  Bren- 
nan  was  immediately  surprised  to  find  himself  laughing 
in  the  same  way. 

The  rimer  was  still  pursuing  Oweneen  down  the  field 
of  his  mind. 

"Aye,  and  I  thank  ye,  yell  see  him  doing  his  best 
after  the  new  schoolmistress  that's  coming  to  us  this 
evening.  There's  a  great  look-out,  I  can  tell  you,  to 
see  what  kind  she'll  be.  Indeed  the  last  one  wasn't 
much.  Grand-looking  whipsters,  moryah!  to  be  teach- 
ing the  young  idea.  Indeed  I  wouldn't  be  at  all  sur- 
prised to  see  one  of  them  going  away  from  here  some- 
time and  she  in  the  family  way,  although  may  God 
pardon  me  for  alluding  to  the  like  and  I  standing  in 
the  presence  of  the  makings  of  a  priest ! ' ' 

John  Brennan  felt  himself  blushing  ever  so  slightly. 

"And  who  d'ye  think  was  in  Garradrimna  this  even- 
ing? Why  Ulick  Shannon,  and  he  a  big  man.  Down 
to  stop  with  his  uncle  Myles  he  is  for  a  holiday.  He 
wasn't  here  since  he  was  a  weeshy  gosoon;  for,  what 
d'ye  think,  didn't  his  mother  and  father  send  him  away 
to  Dublin  to  be  nursed  soon  after  he  was  born  and  never 
seemed  to  care  much  about  him  afterwards;  but  they 


60     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

were  the  quare  pair,  and  it  was  no  good  end  that  hap- 
pened to  themselves,  for  Henry  Shannon  and  the  girl  he 
married,  Grace  Gogarty,  both  died  within  the  one  year. 
He  in  the  full  pride  of  his  red  life,  and  she  while  she 
was  gallivanting  about  the  country  wearing  mourning 
for  him  and  looking  for  another  husband  that  she  never 
got  before  she  went  into  the  clay.  Well,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  Myles  Shannon  looked  after  the  orphan, 
paying  for  his -rearing  and  his  education,  and  having 
him  live  as  a  gentleman  in  Dublin — until  now  he's  a 
great-looking  fellow  entirely,  and  going  on,  I  suppose, 
for  Doctoring,  or  the  Law,  or  some  other  profitable 
devilment  like  that.  The  Shannons  were  always  an 
unlucky  family,  but  maybe  Ulick'll  break  the  black 
curse,  although  I  don't  know,  for  he's  the  very  spit  and 
image  of  his  father  and  able  to  take  his  drink  like  a 
good  one,  I  can  tell  ye.  This  evening  he  came  into  Mc- 
Dermott's.  There  was  no  one  there  but  meself,  it  being 
the  high  evening,  so  says  he  to  me : 

"  'What '11  ye  have?' 

"  'Begad,  Mr.  Shannon,'  says  I,  'I'll  have  a  pint. 
And  more  power  to  ye,  sir!'  says  I,  although  I  was 
grinning  to  meself  all  the  time,  for  I  couldn't  help 
thinking  that  he  was  only  the  son  of  Henry  Shannon, 
one  of  the  commonest  blackguards  that  ever  disgraced 
this  part  of  the  country.  You  didn't  know  him,  but 
your  mother  could  tell  you  about  him.  You  might 
swear  your  mother  could  tell  you  about  him!" 

John  Brennan  did  not  notice  the  light  of  merriment 
which  overspread  the  face  of  Shamesy  Golliher,  for  he 
was  looking  down  towards  the  hush  of  the  lake,  and  ex- 
periencing a  certain  feeling  of  annoyance  that  this 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     61 

young  man  should  be  becoming  gradually  introduced 
to  him  in  this  way.  But  Shamesy  was  still  speaking: 

' '  He  stood  me  four  pints  and  two  glasses,  and  nothing 
would  do  him  when  he  was  going  away  but  he  should 
buy  me  a  whole  glass  of  whiskey.  He's  what  you  might 
call  a  gay  fellow,  I  can  tell  you.  And  God  save  us! 
isn't  it  grand  to  be  that  way,  even  though  you  never 
earned  it,  and  not  have  to  be  getting  your  drink  like 
me  be  nice  contriving  among  the  small  game  of  the 
fields?" 

They  parted  in  silence,  Shamesy  Golliher  going  east- 
ward towards  Garradrimna  and  John  Brennan  in  the 
opposite  direction  and  towards  his  mother's  house.  His 
mind  had  begun  to  slip  into  a  condition  of  vacancy  when 
an  accident  happened  to  turn  it  again  in  the  direction 
of  religion.  As  he  came  out  upon  the  road  he  passed 
a  group  of  children  playing  between  two  neighboring 
houses.  The  group  was  made  up  of  the  children  of 
two  families,  the  O'Briens  and  the  Vaughans.  It  was 
said  of  Mrs.  Vaughan  that  although  she  had  been  mar- 
ried by  Father  O  'Keeffe,  and  went  to  Mass  every  second 
Sunday,  she  still  clung  to  the  religion  into  which  she 
had  been  born.  Now  her  eldest  child,  a  pretty,  fair- 
haired  boy,  was  in  the  midst  of  the  O'Briens'  children. 
Their  mother  was  what  you  might  call  a  goqd  woman, 
for,  although  she  had  the  most  slovenly  house  along 
the  valley  road,  she  went  to  Mass  as  often  as  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan. They  were  making  the  innocent  child  repeat 
phrases  out  of  their  prayers  and  then  laughing  and 
mocking  him  because  he  could  not  properly  pronounce 
the  long  words.  They  were  trying  to  make  him  bless 
himself,  but  the  hands  of  little  Edward  could  not  mas- 


62     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ter  the  gestures  of  the  formula,  and  they  were  jeering 
at  him  for  his  ill-success.  When  he  seemed  just  upon 
the  verge  of  tears  they  began  to  ask  him  questions  in 
the  answers  to  which  he  would  seem  to  have  been  well 
trained  aforetime,  for  he  repeated  them  with  glibness 
and  enjoyment. 

"What  religion  are  ye?" 

"I'm  a  little  black  Protestant." 

"And  where  will  ye  go  when  ye  die?" 

"I '11  go  to  hell." 

"What's  hell?" 

"A  big  place  bigger  than  the  chapel  or  the  church, 
with  a  terrible,  grand  fire  in  it." 

"And  what  is  it  full  of?" 

"It's  full  of  little  fellows  like  me!" 

This  was  the  melancholy  piece  of  catechism  John 
Brennan  was  constrained  to  hear  as  he  went  past. 

It  added  the  last  wave  of  sadness  to  the  gray  mood 
which  had  been  descending  upon  him  by  degrees  since 
the  beginning  of  the  day.  .  .  .  He  stood  upon  the  road 
and  listened  for  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  sound  which 
might  connect  his  mind  with  a  thought  that  had  some 
brightness.  Although  only  a  few  days  had  elapsed 
since  his  return  his  ears  were  already  beginning  to  re- 
develop that  delicate  perception  of  slight  sounds  which 
comes  to  one  in  the  quiet  places.  He  now  heard  a  car 
come  through  Garradrimna  and  move  a  short  distance 
down  the  valley  road.  That,  he  thought,  should  be 
Paddy  McCann  driving  the  new  mistress  to  her  lodging 
in  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick. 

The  small  realization  held  occupation  of  his  mind  as 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     68 

he  went  into  the  house  of  his  mother.  He  was  surprised 
to  find  that  it  was  past  ten.  Still  lonely  as  he  went  to 
his  room,  he  thought  once  more  of  the  kind  invitation 
of  Mr.  Myles  Shannon. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

M'YLES  SHANNON  had  ever  borne  a  passionate 
grudge  against  Mrs.  Brennan.  He  had  loved 
his  brother  Henry,  and  he  felt  that  she,  of  all  people, 
had  had  the  most  powerful  hand  in  instituting  the  re- 
morse which  had  hurried  him  to  his  doom.  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan, on  the  other  hand,  believed  firmly  that  Henry 
Shannon  would  have  married  her,  and  made  of  her  a 
decent  woman,  but  for  the  intervention  of  his  brother 
Myles.  Furthermore,  she  believed  darkly  in  her  heart 
that  the  subtle  plan  of  the  disastrous  "honeymoon"  had 
originated  in  the  brain  of  Myles,  although  in  this  she 
was  wrong.  She  thought  of  Henry  as  being  never  of 
that  sort.  He  was  wild  and  mad,  with  nothing  too 
hot  or  too  heavy  for  him,  but  he  was  not  one  to  concoct 
schemes.  So,  when  Henry  died,  Mrs.  Brennan  had 
thought  well  to  transmit  her  hatred  of  the  Shannon 
family  to  his  brother  Myles. 

Myles  Shannon  lived  a  quiet  life  there  in  his  big 
house  among  the  trees  upon  the  side  of  Scarden,  one  of 
the  hills  which  overlooked  the  valley.  In  lonely,  silent 
moments  he  often  thought  of  his  brother  Henry  and  of 
the  strange  manner  in  which  he  had  burned  out  his 
life.  With  the  end  of  his  brother  before  him  always 
as  a  deterrent  example,  he  did  not  interest  himself  in 
women.  He  interested  himself  in  the  business  of  his 
cattle  and  sheep  all  through  each  and  every  day  of  the 
64 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     65 

year.  He  did  not  feel  the  years  slipping  past  him  as 
he  went  about  his  easy,  contented  life,  watching,  with 
great  interest,  his  beef  and  mutton  grow  up  in  the  fields. 

The  cattle  in  particular  stood  for  the  absorbing  in- 
terest and  the  one  excitement  of  his  life.  He  looked 
upon  his  goings  and  comings  to  and  from  the  markets 
at  Dublin  and  at  Wakefield  in  England  as  holiday  ex- 
cursions of  great  enjoyment. 

It  was  during  one  of  his  trips  to  England  that  he  had 
met  Helena  Cooper  at  some  hotel  in  Manchester.  He 
was  one  to  whom  the  powers  of  Romance  had  remained 
strangers,  yet  now,  when  they  at  last  came  into  his  life, 
it  was  with  a  force  that  carried  away  all  the  protection 
of  his  mind.  He  wanted  some  one  to  fill  the  loneliness 
of  the  big  house  on  Scarden  Hill,  and  so  he  set  his  heart 
upon  Helena  Cooper. 

He  returned  to  the  valley  a  different  man.  Quite 
suddenly  he  began  to  have  a  greater  interest  in  his  ap- 
pearance, and  it  was  noticed  that  he  grew  sentimental 
and  became  easy  in  his  dealings.  It  began  to  be  whis- 
pered around  that,  even  so  late  in  life,  almost  at  the 
close  of  the  middle  period  which  surely  marks  the  end 
of  a  man's  prime,  Myles  Shannon  had  fallen  in  love 
and  was  about  to  be  married. 

It  was  a  notable  rumor,  and  although  it  was  fifteen 
years  since  the  death  of  Henry  Shannon,  Mrs.  Brennan, 
as  one  having  a  good  reason  to  be  interested  in  the 
affairs  of  the  Shannon  family,  became  excited. 

' '  Indeed  it  was  high  time  for  him  to  think  of  it, ' '  she 
said  to  a  neighbor  one  Sunday  morning,  "before  he 
turned  into  a  real  ould  blackguard  of  a  bachelor — and 
who  d'ye  say  the  girl  is?" 


66     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Why,  then,  they  say  she's  an  English  lady,  and  that 
she's  grand  and  young." 

Mrs.  Brennan  was  a  great  one  for  "ferreting-out" 
things.  Once  she  had  set  her  mind  upon  knowing  a 
thing,  there  was  little  possibility  of  preventing  her. 
And  now  she  was  most  anxious  to  know  whom  Myles 
Shannon  was  about  to  marry.  So  when  she  saw  the  old 
bent  postmistress  taking  the  air  upon  the  valley  road 
later  on  in  the  day  she  brought  her  into  the  sewing-room 
and,  over  a  cup  of  tea,  proceeded  to  satisfy  her  curiosity. 

"There  must  be  letters?"  she  said  after  they  had 
come  round  to  a  discussion  of  the  rumored  marriage. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed.  There's  letters  coming  and  going, 
coming  and  going,"  the  old  lady  wheezed.  "A  nice- 
looking  ould  codger,  isn't  he,  to  be  writing  letters  to  a 
young  girl?" 

"And  how  d'ye  know  she's  young?" 

"How  do  I  know,  is  it,  how  do  I  know?  Well,  well, 
isn't  that  my  business?  To  know  and  to  mind." 

"You're  a  great  woman." 

"I  do  my  duty,  that's  all,  Mrs.  Brennan,  as  sure  as 
you're  there.  And  d'ye  imagine  for  a  moment  I  was 
going  to  let  Myles  Shannon  pass,  for  all  he's  such  a 
great  swank  of  a  farmer?  She  is  a  young  girl." 

"Well,  well?" 

"There's  no  reason  to  misdoubt  me  in  the  least,  for 
I  saw  her  photo  and  it  coming  through  the  post." 

"A  big,  enlarged  photo,  I  suppose?" 

"Aye,  the  photo  of  a  young  girl  in  her  bloom." 

"I  suppose  she's  very  nice?" 

"She's  lovely,  and  'tis  what  I  said  to  myself  as  I 
looked  upon  her  face,  that  it  would  be  the  pity  of  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     67 

world  to  see  her  married  to  a  middling  ould  fellow  like 
Myles  Shannon." 

"And  I  suppose,  now,  that  she  has  a  nice  name?" 

•'Aye.  It  is  that.  And  what  you  might  call  a  grand 
name." 

A  long  pause  now  fell  between  the  two  women,  as  if 
both  were  endeavoring  to  form  in  their  minds  some 
great  resolve  to  which  their  hearts  were  prompting 
them.  The  old  postmistress  delivered  her  next  speech 
in  a  whisper: 

"Her  name  is  Helena  Cooper,  and  her  address  is  15 
Medway  Avenue,  Manchester!" 

The  two  women  now  nudged  one  another  in  simultan- 
eous delight.  Mrs.  Brennan  ran  the  direction  over  and 
over  in  her  mind  as  if  suddenly  fearful  that  some  dread- 
ful stroke  of  forgetfulness  might  come  to  overthrow 
her  chance  of  revenge  upon  her  false,  dead  lover 
through  the  great  injury  she  now  contemplated  doing 
to  his  brother.  .  .  .  She  made  an  excuse  of  going  to  the 
kitchen  to  put  more  water  upon  the  teapot  and,  when 
she  went  there,  scribbled  the  name  and  address  upon 
the  wall  beside  the  fireplace. 

When  she  returned  to  the  sewing-room  the  old  post- 
mistress was  using  her  handkerchief  to  hide  the  smile 
of  satisfaction  which  was  dancing  around  her  mouth. 
She  knew  what  was  just  presently  running  through  Mrs. 
Brennan 's  mind,  and  she  was  glad  and  thankful  that 
she  herself  was  about  to  be  saved  the  trouble  of  writing 
to  Miss  Cooper.  .  .  .  Her  hand  was  beginning  to  be 
quavery  and  incapable  of  writing  a  hard,  vindictive 
letter.  Besides  that  Mr.  Shannon  was  an  influential 
man  in  the  district,  and  the  Post  Office  was  not  above 


68     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

suspicion.  She  was  thankful  to  Mrs.  Brennan  now, 
and  said  the  tea  was  nice,  very  nice. 

Yet,  immediately  that  the  information,  for  which  she 
had  hungered  since  the  rumor  of  Myles  Shannon's 
marriage  began  to  go  the  rounds,  was  in  her  keeping, 
Mrs.  Brennan  ceased  to  display  any  unusual  interest 
in  the  old,  bespectacled  maid.  Nor  did  the  postmistress 
continue  to  be  excited  by  the  friendly  presence  of  Mrs. 
Brennan,  for  she,  on  her  part,  was  immensely  pleased 
and  considered  that  the  afternoon  had  attained  to  a  re- 
markable degree  of  success.  .  .  .  From  what  she  had 
read  of  her  productions  passing  through  the  post,  she 
knew  that  Mrs.  Brennan  was  the  woman  could  write  the 
strong,  poisonous  letter.  Besides,  who  had  a  better 
right  to  be  writing  it — about  one  of  the  Shannon  fam- 
ily T 

Soon  she  was  going  out  the  door  and  down  the  white 
road  towards  Garradrimna.  .  .  .  Now  wasn't  Mrs. 
Brennan  the  anxious  and  the  prompt  woman ;  she  would 
be  writing  to  Miss  Cooper  this  very  evening  ?  ...  As 
she  went  she  met  young  couples  on  bicycles  passing  to 
distant  places  through  the  fragrant  evening.  The 
glamor  of  Romance  seemed  to  hang  around  them. 

"Now  isn't  that  the  quare  way  for  them  to  be  spend- 
ing the  Sabbath?"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  hobbled 
along. 

The  Angelus  was  just  beginning  to  ring  out  across 
the  waving  fields  with  its  sweet,  clear  sound  as  Mrs. 
Brennan  regained  the  sewing-room  after  having  seen 
her  visitor  to  the  door,  but,  good  woman  though  she  was, 
she  did  not  stop  to  answer  its  holy  summons.  Her  mind 
was  driving  her  relentlessly  towards  the  achievement  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     69 

her  intention.  The  pen  was  already  in  her  hand,  and 
she  was  beginning  to  scratch  out  "a  full  account,"  as 
she  termed  it,  of  Mr.  Myles  Shannon  for  the  benefit  of 
Miss  Helena  Cooper,  whoever  she  might  be.  Through 
page  after  page  she  continued  her  attack  while  the  fire 
of  her  hate  was  still  burning  brightly  through  her  will. 

It  had  been  her  immemorial  custom  to  send  full  ac- 
counts abroad  whenever  one  of  the  valley  dwellers  made 
attempts  at  assertion,  but  not  one  of  the  Shannons  had 
so  far  offered  her  such  a  golden  opportunity.  For  the 
moment  she  was  in  her  glory. 

She  announced  herself  as  a  good  friend  of  this  girl, 
whose  name  she  had  only  heard  just  now.  She  wrote 
that  she  would  not  like  to  see  Miss  Cooper  deceived  by 
a  man  she  had  no  opportunity  of  knowing  in  his  real 
character,  such  as  Mr.  Shannon. 

Now  it  was  a  fact  that  Myles,  unlike  his  brother 
Henry,  had  not  been  a  notable  antagonist  of  the  Com- 
mandments. It  was  true,  of  course,  that  he  was  not 
distinguished  for  the  purity  of  his  ways  when  he  went 
adventuring  about  the  bye-ways  of  Dublin  after  a  day 
at  the  cattle  market,  and  people  from  the  valley,  crop- 
ping up  most  unexpectedly,  had  witnessed  some  of  his 
exploits  and  had  sent  magnified  stories  winging  afar. 
But  he  had  ruined  no  girl,  and  was  even  admirable  in 
his  habits  when  at  home  in  his  lonely  house  among  the 
trees. 

This,  however,  was  not  the  Mr.  Shannon  that  Mrs. 
Brennan  set  down  in  her  letter  to  Helena  Cooper.  It 
was  rather  the  portrait  of  his  brother  Henry,  the  wild 
libertine,  that  she  painted,  for,  in  the  high  moments 
of  her  hate,  she  was  as  one  blinded  by  the  ecstasy  that 


70     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

had  come  upon  her.  The  name  of  Shannon  held  for  her 
only  one  significance,  and,  for  the  moment,  it  was  an 
abysmal  vision  which  dazzled  her  eyes. 

Soon  there  came  a  communication  from  Miss  Cooper 
to  Mr.  Shannon  which  had  the  effect  of  nipping  his 
green  romance  while  it  was  still  young.  ...  It  asked 
him  was  this  true  and  was  that  true?  .  .  .  The  easy, 
sentimental  way  he  had  looked  upon  the  matter  was 
suddenly  kindled  into  a  deeper  feeling,  and  he  thought 
of  having  the  girl  now  at  all  costs.  .  .  .  He  wrote  a 
fine  reply  in  justification.  It  was  a  clear,  straight  piece 
of  writing,  and,  although  it  pained  him  greatly,  he  was 
compelled  to  admit  that  the  statements  about  which 
Miss  Cooper  wished  to  be  satisfied  were  no  more  than 
the  truth  in  relation  to  a  certain  member  of  the  Shan- 
non family.  But  they  related  to  his  dead  brother 
Henry  and  not  to  him.  .  .  .  He  prayed  the  forgiveness 
of  forgetfulness  for  the  dead.  ...  He  volunteered  the 
production  of  convincing  proof  for  every  statement  here 
made  in  regard  to  himself. 

But  the  old  lady  at  the  Post  Office  had  something  to 
say  in  the  matter.  She  had  read  Miss  Cooper's  letter, 
and  as  she  now  read  the  letter  of  Mr.  Shannon  she  knew 
that  should  it  reach  her  this  girl  must  be  fully  satisfied 
as  to  his  character,  for  his  was  a  fine  piece  of  plead- 
ing. .  .  .  But  she  could  not  let  Mrs.  Brennan  have  all 
the  secret  satisfaction  for  the  destruction  of  his  love- 
affair.  The  bitter  woman  in  the  valley  had  done  the 
ugly,  obvious  part  of  the  work,  but  she  was  in  a  position 
to  hurry  it  to  secret,  deadly  completion.  ...  So  that 
evening  the  letter,  which  it  had  given  Myles  Shannon 
such  torture  to  write,  was  burned  at  the  fire  in  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     71 

kitchen  behind  the  Post  Office.  ...  He  wrote  to  Helena 
Cooper  again  and  yet  again,  but  the  same  thing  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  His  third  letter  had  turned  purely  pathetic 
in  its  tone.  The  old  lady  said  to  herself  that  it  made 
her  laugh  like  anything. 

At  last  he  fell  to  considering  that  her  affection  for 
him  could  not  have  been  very  deep  seeing  that  she  had 
allowed  it  to  be  so  strongly  influenced  by  some  poison- 
ous letter  from  an  anonymous  enemy.  .  .  .  Yet  there 
were  moments  when  he  knew  that  he  could  never  for- 
get her  nor  escape,  through  all  the  years  he  might  live, 
from  the  grand  dream  her  first  tenderness  had  raised 
up  in  his  heart.  In  its  immediate  aspect  he  was  a  little 
angry  that  the  rumor  of  a  contemplated  marriage  on 
his  part  should  have  gone  abroad.  But  he  had  almost 
triumphed  over  this  slight  feeling  of  annoyance  when 
there  came  to  him,  some  month  later,  the  ''account"  that 
had  been  written  about  him  to  Miss  Cooper  without  a 
word  of  comment  enclosed.  .  .  .  The  old  lady  at  the 
office  had  seen  to  that,  for  the  letter  accompanying  it 
as  far  as  Garradrimna  had  gone  the  way  of  Mr.  Shan- 
non's letters.  .  .  .  This  had  made  her  laugh  also  with 
its  note  of  wonder  as  to  why  he  had  made  no  attempt 
to  explain.  ...  If  only  he  would  say  that  the  state- 
ments made  against  him  were  all  mere  lies.  Of  course 
she  did  not  believe  a  word  of  them,  but  she  wished  him 
to  say  so  in  a  letter  to  her.  .  .  .  The  Post  Office  was 
saved  from  suspicion  by  this  second  bit  of  destruction, 
although  it  had  done  its  work  well. 

The  bare,  scurrilous  note  caused  a  blaze  of  indigna- 
tion turning  to  hatred  to  take  possession  of  his  soul 
which  had  hitherto  been  largely  distinguished  by  kindly 


72     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

influences.  He  had  his  suspicions  at  once  that  it  was 
the  work  of  Mrs.  Brennan. 

There  was  a  letter  of  hers  locked  in  a  bureau  in  the 
parlor  with  other  things  which  had  been  the  property 
of  his  dead  brother  Henry.  They  were  all  sad  things 
which  related  intimately  to  the  queer  life  he  had  led. 
This  old  faded  letter  from  Nan  Byrne  was  the  one  she 
had  written  asking  him  for  Christ's  sake  to  marry  her, 
now  that  she  felt  her  misfortune  coming  upon  her.  .  .  . 
A  hard  look  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  began  to  compare 
the  weak  handwriting.  Yes,  it  was  hers  surely,  be- 
yond a  shadow  of  doubt.  .  .  .  He  locked  this  thing 
which  had  so  changed  the  course  of  his  life  with  the 
things  of  his  brother. 

It  was  queer,  he  thought,  that  she,  of  all  people,  who 
should  be  prone  to  silence,  had  thought  fit,  after  the 
passage  of  so  many  years,  to  meddle  with  dead  things 
in  the  hope  of  ending  other  dreams  which,  until  now, 
had  lived  brightly.  He  continued  to  brood  himself 
into  bitter  determinations.  He  resolved  that,  as  no 
other  girl  had  come  greatly  into  his  life  before  the  com- 
ing of  Helena  Cooper,  no  other  one  must  enter  now  that 
she  was  gone.  She  was  gone,  and  must  the  final  dis- 
aster of  his  affections  narrow  down  to  a  mere  piece  of 
sentimental  renunciation?  Strange,  contradictory  at- 
titudes built  themselves  up  in  his  mind. 

Out  of  his  brooding  there  grew  before  him  the  struc- 
ture of  a  plan.  This  woman  had  besmirched  his 
brother,  helping  him  towards  the  destruction  of  his  life, 
for  it  was  in  this  light,  as  a  brother,  he  had  viewed  the 
matter  always;  and  now,  in  her  attempt  to  besmirch 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     73 

himself,  she  had  spoiled  his  dream.  He  had  grown 
angry  after  the  slow  fashion  which  was  the  way  of  his 
thought,  but  his  resolve  was  now  sure  and  deliberate. 

There  was  her  son!  He  had  just  gone  to  some  kind 
of  college  in  England  to  prepare  for  the  priesthood,  and 
the  antecedents  of  a  priest  must  be  without  blemish. 
It  was  not  the  youth's  fault,  but  his  mother  was  Nan 
Byrne,  and  some  one  must  pay.  .  .  .  And  why  should 
she  desire  to  bring  punishment  of  any  kind  upon  him 
for  his  brother's  sin  with  her?  He  had  loved  his 
brother,  and  it  was  only  natural  to  think  that  she  loved 
her  son.  And  through  that  love  might  come  the  deso- 
lation of  her  heart.  To  allow  the  blossom  to  brighten 
in  her  eye  and  then,  suddenly,  to  wither  it  at  a  blast. 
To  permit  this  John  Brennan  to  approach  the  sacred 
portals  of  the  priesthood  and  then  to  cause  him  to  be 
cast  adrift. 

The  thought  of  how  he  might  put  a  more  delicate 
turn  to  the  execution  of  his  plan  had  come  to  him  as  he 
journeyed  down  from  Dublin  with  John  Brennan.  He 
knew  that  his  nephew,  Ulick,  had  lived  the  rather  reck- 
less student  life  of  Dublin.  Just  recently  he  had  been 
drawing  him  out.  But  he  was  no  weakling,  and  it  was 
not  possible  that  any  of  those  ways  might  yet  submerge 
him.  However,  his  influence  acting  upon  a  weaker 
mind  might  have  effect  and  produce  again  the  degener- 
ate that  had  not  fully  leaped  to  life  in  him.  If  he  were 
brought  into  contact  with  John  Brennan  it  might  be 
the  means  of  effecting,  in  a  less  direct  way,  the  result 
which  must  be  obtained. 

It  was  with  this  thought  simmering  in  his  brain  that 


74.     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Myles  Shannon  had  invited  John  Brennan  to  the  friend- 
ship and  company  of  his  nephew.  When  he  had  spoken 
of  the  Great  War  it  was  the  condition  of  his  own  mind 
that  had  prompted  the  thought,  for  it  was  filled  with 
the  impulse  of  destruction. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  is  on  his  passage  through  the  village  of  Garra- 
drimna  that  we  may  most  truly  observe  John  Bren- 
nan,  in  sharp  contrast  with  his  dingy  environment,  as 
he  goes  to  hear  morning  Mass  at  the  instigation  of  his 
mother,  whose  pathetic  fancy  fails  to  picture  him  in  any 
other  connection.  It  is  a  beautiful  morning,  and  the 
sun  is  already  high.  There  is  a  clean  freshness  upon 
all  things.  The  tall  trees  which  form  a  redeeming 
background  for  the  uneven  line  of  the  ugly  houses  on 
the  western  side  of  the  street  are  flinging  their  rich 
raiment  wildly  upon  the  light  breeze  where  it  floats  like 
the  decorative  garments  of  a  ballet  dancer.  The  light 
winds  are  whipping  the  lightness  of  the  morning. 

The  men  of  drink  are  already  stirring  about  in  an- 
ticipation. Hubert  Manning  is  striking  upon  the  door 
of  Flynn's,  the  grocery  establishment,  which,  in  the 
heavy  blindness  of  his  thirst,  he  takes  to  be  one  of  the 
seven  publichouses  of  Garradrimna.  He  is  running 
about  like  some  purged  sinner,  losing  patience  at  last 
hard  by  the  Gate  of  Heaven.  In  the  course  of  her  in- 
clusive chronicles  his  mother  had  told  John  Brennan 
the  life  history  of  Hubert  Manning.  For  sixty  odd 
years  he  had  bent  his  body  in  hard  battle  with  the  clay, 
until  the  doubtful  benefit  of  a  legacy  had  come  to  change 
the  current  of  his  life.  The  fortune,  with  its  sudden 
diversion  towards  idleness  and  enjoyment,  had  caused 
75 


76     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

all  the  latent  villainy  of  the  man,  which  the  soil  had 
subdued,  to  burst  forth  with  violence.  He  was  now  a 
drunken  old  cur  whom  Sergeant  McGoldrick  caused  to 
spend  a  fortune  in  fines. 

"Just  imagine  the  people  who  do  be  left  the  money!" 
said  Mrs.  Brennan,  as  she  told  the  story. 

John  Brennan  passes  on.  He  meets  the  bill-poster, 
Thomas  James.  His  dark,  red  face  displays  an  im- 
mense anxiety.  He  is  going  for  his  first  pint  with  a 
pinch  of  salt  held  most  carefully  in  his  hand.  His  pres- 
ent condition  is  a  fact  to  be  deplored,  for  he  was  famous 
in  his  time  and  held  the  record  in  Garradrimna  for  fast 
drinking  of  a  pint.  He  could  drink  twenty  pints  in 
a  day.  Hence  his  decline  and  the  pinch  of  salt  now 
held  so  carefully  in  his  hand.  This  is  to  keep  down 
the  first  pint,  and  if  the  operation  be  safely  effected  it 
is  quite  possible  that  the  other  nineteen  will  give  him 
no  trouble. 

Coming  in  the  valley  road  are  Shamesy  Golliher  and 
Martin  Connell.  In  the  distance  they  appear  as  small, 
shrinking  figures,  moving  in  abasement  beneath  the 
Gothic  arches  of  the  elms.  They  represent  the  advance 
guard  of  those  who  leave  the  sunlit  fields  on  a  summer 
morning  to  come  into  the  dark,  cavernous  pubs  of 
Garradrimna. 

On  the  side  of  the  street,  distant  from  that  upon 
which  John  Brennan  is  walking,  moves  the  famous  fig- 
ure of  Padna  Padna,  slipping  along  like  some  spirit  of 
discontent  and  immortal  longing,  doomed  forever  to 
wander.  He  mistakes  the  student  for  one  of  the  priests 
and  salutes  him  by  tipping  his  great  hat  lightly  with 
his  little  fore-finger. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     77 

And  here  conies  yet  another,  this  one  with  speed  and 
determination  in  his  stride,  for  it  is  Anthony  Shaugh- 
ness,  who  has  spent  three-fourths  of  his  life  running 
away  from  Death. 

' '  Will  you  save  a  lif e ;  will  you  save  a  lif e  ? "  he 
whispers  wildly,  clutching  John  by  the  arm.  "I  have 
a  penny,  but  sure  a  penny  is  no  good,  sir;  and  I  want 
tuppence-ha'penny  to  add  to  it  for  the  price  of  a  pint; 
but  sure  you  won 't  mind  when  it 's  to  save  my  life !  I 
know  you  '11  give  it  to  me  for  the  love  of  God ! ' ' 

This  is  a  very  well-known  request  in  the  mouth  of 
Anthony  Shaughness,  and  John  Brennan  has  attended 
it  so  very  often  during  the  past  few  years  as  to  deserve 
a  medal  for  life-saving.  Yet  he  now  takes  the  coppers 
from  his  small  store  of  pocket-money  and  gives  them  to 
the  dipsomaniac,  who  moves  rapidly  in  the  direction  of 
"The  World's  End." 

There  is  presently  an  exciting  interlude.  They  are 
just  opening  up  at  Brannagan's  as  he  goes  past.  The 
sleepy-looking  barmaid  has  come  to  the  newly-opened 
door,  and  makes  an  ungraceful  gesture  in  gathering  up 
her  ugly  dishevelled  hair.  A  lout  of  a  lad  with  a  dirty 
cigarette  in  his  mouth  appears  suddenly.  They  begin 
to  grin  at  one  another  in  foolish  rapture,  for  it  is  a 
lovers'  meeting.  Through  the  doorway  at  which  they 
stand  the  smell  of  stale  porter  is  already  assaulting  the 
freshness  of  the  morning.  They  enter  the  bar  surrep- 
titiously and  John  Brennan  can  hear  the  swish  of  a 
pint  in  the  glass  in  which  it  is  being  filled.  The  usual 
morning  gift,  he  thinks,  with  which  this  maiden  favors 
this  gallant  lover  of  a  new  Romance.  .  .  .  There  comes 
to  him  suddenly  the  idea  that  his  name  has  been  men- 


78     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

tioned  in  this  dark  place  just  now.  .  .  .  He  goes  on 
walking  quickly  towards  the  chapel. 

The  plan  which  Myles  Shannon  had  originated  was 
not  lacking  in  subtlety.  He  foresaw  a  certain  clash  of 
character,  between  his  nephew  and  the  son  of  Nan 
Byrne,  which  must  become  most  interesting  as  he 
watched  it  out  of  his  malevolence.  He  could  never, 
never,  forget  what  she  had  done.  ...  And  always,  be- 
yond the  desolation  which  appeared  from  concentra- 
tion of  his  revengeful  intentions,  he  beheld  the  ruins 
of  her  son. 

He  often  thought  it  puzzling  how  she  should  never 
have  imagined  that  some  one  like  him  might  be  tempted 
to  do  at  some  time  what  he  was  now  about  to  do.  It 
seemed  remarkable  beyond  all  else  that  her  mind  should 
possess  such  an  opaque  oneness  of  purpose,  such  an  ex- 
traordinary "thickness,"  to  use  the  term  of  the  valley. 

Yet  this  was  a  quality  peculiar  to  the  gentle  hush  of 
the  grassy  places.  It  seemed  to  arise  from  the  removal 
of  an  intelligent  feeling  of  humanity  from  the  conduct 
of  life  and  the  replacement  of  it  by  a  spitefulness  that 
killed  and  blinded.  It  was  the  explanation  of  many  of 
the  tragedies  of  the  valley.  Like  a  malignant  wind,  it 
warped  the  human  growth  within  the  valley's  confines. 
It  was  what  had  happened  to  Mrs.  Brennan  and,  because 
of  the  action  he  was  taking  in  regard  to  her,  what  was 
now  about  to  happen  to  Myles  Shannon.  He  seemed  to 
forget,  as  he  went  about  his  vengeance,  that  subtlety  is 
akin  to  humor,  and  that  humor,  in  its  application  to 
the  satiric  perception  of  things,  is  the  quality  which 
constantly  heals  the  cut  it  has  made.  He  might  cer- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     79 

tainly  leave  the  mark  of  his  vengeance  upon  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan,  but  there  was  the  danger  of  the  weapon  recoiling 
upon  himself  and  his  kinsman.  It  was  a  horrible  plan 
indeed,  this,  of  setting  one  young  man  to  ruin  another. 
It  was  such  a  conflict,  with  such  an  anticipated  ending, 
as  had  shaped  itself  inevitably  out  of  the  life  of  the 
valley.  Where  life  was  an  endless  battle  of  conflicting 
characters  and  antagonized  dispositions  it  seemed  par- 
ticularly meet  that  a  monumental  conflict  should  at  last 
have  been  instituted. 

Ulick  Shannon  was  finding  the  valley  very  little  to  his 
mind.  But  for  the  intervention  of  his  uncle  he  was 
several  times  upon  the  point  of  returning  to  Dublin. 
Although  it  was  for  a  rest  he  had  come  the  place  was 
too  damnably  dull.  Garradrimna  was  an  infernal  hole ! 
Yet  he  went  there  often,  and  it  was  remarkable  that  his 
uncle  said  never  a  word  when  he  arrived  home  from 
the  village,  several  nights,  in  a  condition  that  was  not 
one  of  absolute  sobriety.  On  the  contrary,  he  seemed 
to  take  a  certain  joyful  interest  in  such  happenings. 
His  uncle  often  spoke  of  the  young  man,  John  Bren- 
nan,  whom  he  desired  him  to  meet,  and  it  was  surpris- 
ing that  this  young  man  had  not  made  the  visit  he  had 
promised  to  the  house  among  the  trees. 

Myles  Shannon  was  beginning  to  be  annoyed  by  the 
appearance  of  this  slight  obstruction  in  the  path  of  his 
plan.  Had  Mrs.  Brennan  forbidden  the  friendship  he 
had  proposed?  It  was  very  like  her  indeed,  and  of 
course  she  had  her  reasons.  .  .  .  But  it  would  never  do 
to  let  her  triumph  over  him  now,  and  he  having  such  a 
lovely  plan.  He  would  go  so  far  as  to  send  his  nephew 


80     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  call  at  her  house  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Nan 
Byrne's  son.  It  would  be  queer  surely  to  see  him  call- 
ing at  that  house  and  inquiring  for  John  Brennan  when 
his  father  had  gone  there  aforetime  to  see  John  Bren- 
nan 's  mother.  But  how  was  Ulick  to  know  and  view 
from  such  an  angle  this  aspect  of  his  existence? 

Yet,  after  all,  the  meeting  of  John  Brennan  and  Ulick 
Shannon  happened  quite  accidentally  and  upon  such  a 
morning  as  we  have  seen  John  in  Garradrimna. 

Ulick  had  gone  for  a  walk  around  that  way  before 
his  breakfast.  He  was  not  feeling  particularly  well  as 
he  paused  at  the  end  of  the  valley  road  to  survey  the 
mean  street  of  Garradrimna,  down  which  he  had 
marched  last  night  with  many  a  wild  thought  rushing 
into  his  mind  as  the  place  and  the  people  fell  far  be- 
neath his  high  gaze. 

His  quick  eye  caught  sight  of  something  now  which 
seemed  a  curiously  striking  piece  in  the  drab  mosaic  of 
his  morning.  It  was  a  little  party  of  four  going  to- 
wards the  chapel.  The  pair  in  front  could  possibly  be 
none  other  than  the  bridegroom  and  his  bride.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  marriage  was  their  purpose  from  the 
look  of  open  rapture  upon  their  faces.  The  bridesmaid 
and  the  best  man  were  laughing  and  chatting  gaily  as 
they  walked  behind  them.  They  seemed  to  be  having 
the  best  of  it. 

Ulick  thought  it  interesting  to  see  this  pair  moving 
eagerly  towards  a  mysterious  purpose.  .  .  .  He  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  it  was  a  most  merciful  thing 
that  all  men  do  not  lift  the  veil  of  life  so  early  as  he 
had  done.  .  .  .  The  harsh,  slight  laugh  which  came 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     81 

from  him  was  like  the  remembered  laughter  of  a  dead 
man. 

Now  that  his  eyes  were  falling,  with  an  unfilled  look, 
upon  the  street  along  which  the  four  had  gone  he  began 
to  see  people  who  had  been  looking  out  move  away  from 
the  squinting  windows  and  a  few  seconds  later  come 
hurriedly  out  of  their  houses  and  go  towards  the  chapel. 

The  poor,  self-conscious  clod,  who  had  dearly  desired 
to  marry  the  girl  of  his  fancy  quietly  and  with  no  pry- 
ing eyes,  amid  the  fragrance  of  the  fine  June  morning, 
had,  after  all,  succeeded  only  in  drawing  about  him  the 
leering  attention  of  all  the  village.  There  were  ever  so 
many  people  going  towards  the  chapel  this  morning. 
The  lot  was  large  enough  to  remind  one  of  a  Sunday 
congregation  at  either  Mass,  this  black  drove  now  mov- 
ing up  the  laneway.  Ulick  Shannon  went  forward  to 
join  it. 

Coming  near  the  chapel  he  encountered  a  young  man 
in  black,  who  wore  the  look  of  a  student.  This  must  be 
John  Brennan,  he  thought,  of  whom  his  uncle  had  so 
repeatedly  spoken.  He  turned  and  said: 

"Good  morning!  I'm  Ulick  Shannon,  and  I  fancy 
you're  Brennan,  the  chap  my  uncle  has  talked  of  so 
often.  He  has  been  expecting  you  to  call  at  Scarden 
House." 

They  shook  hands. 

"Yes,  I'm  John  Brennan,  and  I'm  delighted  to  meet, 
you.  I  have  not  forgotten  your  uncle's  kind  invita- 
tion." 

Together  they  entered  the  House  of  God.  .  .  .  Father 
O'Keeffe  was  already  engaged  in  uniting  the  couple. 


82     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Distantly  they  could  hear  him  mumbling  the  words  of 
the  ceremony.  .  .  .  All  eyes  were  upon  the  priest  and 
the  four  people  at  the  altar.  .  .  .  Suddenly  Ulick 
giggled  openly,  and  John  Brennan  blushed  in  confu- 
sion, for  this  was  irreverence  such  as  he  had  never  be- 
fore experienced  in  the  presence  of  sacred  things. 


CHAPTER  X 

NEXT  day  Ulick  Shannon  made  a  call  upon  John 
Brennan  and  invited  him  for  a  drive.     Outside 
upon  the  road  Charlie  Clarke's  motor  was  snorting  and 
humming.     Ulick  had  learned  to  drive  a  car  in  Dublin, 
and  had  now  hired  Mr.  Clarke's  machine  for  the  day. 

"You  see,"  he  said  airily,  "that  I  have  dispensed  with 
the  sanctimonious  Charlie  and  am  driving  myself. 
Meaning  no  respect  to  you,  Brennan,  one  approach  to 
a  priest  is  as  much  as  I  can  put  up  with  at  a  time." 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  come  to  the  window,  which  looked 
out  upon  the  little  garden  wicket  by  which  they  were 
standing.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  were  dancing  and  wild 
thoughts  were  rushing  into  her  mind.  .  .  .  Here,  at  last, 
was  the  achieved  disaster  and  the  sight  her  eyes  had 
most  dreaded  to  see — her  son  and  the  son  of  Henry 
Shannon  talking  together  as  brothers. 

An  ache  that  was  akin  to  hunger  seemed  to  have 
suddenly  attacked  her.  Her  lips  became  parched  and 
dry  and  her  jaws  went  through  the  actions  of  swallow- 
ing although  there  was  nothing  in  her  mouth.  Then 
she  felt  herself  being  altogether  obliterated  as  she  stood 
there  by  the  window.  She  was  like  a  wounded  bird 
that  had  broken  itself  in  an  attempt  to  attain  to  the  sun- 
light beyond.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  it  had  fallen  at 
last,  this  shadow  of  separation  from  her  lovely  son. 
John  came  to  the  door  and  called  in : 
83 


84     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"I'm  going  for  a  drive  in  the  motor  with  Mr.  Shan- 
non, mother." 

These  were  his  very  words,  and  they  caused  her  to 
move  away  towards  the  sewing-room  with  the  big  tears 
gathering  into  her  eyes.  From  her  seat  she  saw  her 
son  take  up  his  proud  position  by  the  side  of  Ulick 
Shannon.  There  was  something  for  you,  now!  Her 
son  driving  in  a  motor  car  with  a  young  man  who  was 
going  on  to  be  a  doctor,  in  the  high  noon  of  a  working 
day,  all  down  through  the  valley  of  Tullahanogue.  If 
only  it  happened  to  be  with  any  other  one  in  the 
whole  world.  What  would  all  the  people  say  but  what 
they  must  say?  .  .  .  She  saw  the  two  students  laughing 
just  before  the  car  started  as  if  some  joke  had  suddenly 
leaped  into  being  between  them. 

Ned  Brennan  came  into  the  room.  He  had  been 
making  an  effort  to  do  something  in  the  garden  when 
the  car  had  distracted  him  from  his  task.  Well,  that 
was  what  you  might  call  a  grand  thing !  While  he  was 
here  digging  in  his  drought,  his  son,  I  thank  ye,  going 
off  to  drive  in  a  motor  with  a  kind  of  a  gentleman.  His 
mind  went  swiftly  moving  towards  a  white  heat  of 
temper  which  must  be  eventually  cooled  in  the  black 
pools  of  Garradrimna.  He  came  into  the  room,  a  great 
blast  of  a  man  in  his  anger,  his  boots  heavy  with  the 
clay  of  the  garden. 

"Well,  be  the  Holy  Farmer!  that's  the  grand  turn- 
out! .  .  .  But  sure  they're  a  kind  of  connections,  don't 
you  know,  and  I  suppose  'tis  only  natural?" 

Great  God !  He  had  returned  again  to  this,  and  to 
the  words  she  feared  most  of  all  to  hear  falling  from 
his  mouth. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     85 

"A  curious  attraction,  don't  you  know,  that  the 
breed  of  the  Byrnes  always  had  for  the  breed  of  the 
Shannons.  Eh,  Nan?" 

Mrs.  Brennan  said  nothing.  It  had  been  the  way 
with  her  that  she  felt  a  certain  horror  of  Ned  when  he 
came  to  her  in  this  state,  but  now  she  was  being  moved 
by  a  totally  different  feeling.  She  was  not  without  a 
kind  of  pity  for  him  as  she  suddenly  realized  once  more 
how  she  had  done  him  a  terrible  and  enduring  in- 
jury. ...  As  he  stood  there  glowering  down  upon  her 
he  was  of  immense  bulk  and  significance.  If  he  struck 
her  now  she  would  not  mind  in  the  least. 

"And  they're  like  one  another  too,  them  two  chaps, 
as  like  as  brothers.  And  mebbe  they  are  brothers. 
Eh,  Nan,  eh ;  what  happened  the  child  you  had  for 
Henry  Shannon?  It  died,  did  it?  Why  'tis  only  the 
other  night  that  Larry  Cully  came  at  me  again  about 
it  in  Garradrimna.  'I  see  you  have  your  sons  home 
about  you,'  says  he,  'and  that  must  be  the  great  com- 
fort to  a  man,  your  son  John,'  says  he,  'and  your  son 
Ulick.  Maybe  ye  never  heard  tell,'  says  he,  'that  Grace 
Gogarty's  child  died  young  and  that  Henry  Shannon 
bought  his  other  son  from  his  other  mother-in-law  to 
prevent  it  being  a  rising  disgrace  to  him.  Bought  it 
for  a  small  sum,'  says  he,  'and  put  it  in  the  place  of 
his  lawful  son,  and  his  wife  never  suspected  anything 
until  the  day  she  died,  poor  woman;  for  she  was  to  be 
pitied,  having  married  such  a  blackguard.'  Is  that 
true,  is  it,  Nan?" 

Oh,  Blessed  Mother!  this  was  even  more  terrible  than 
the  suspicion  Marse  Prendergast  had  put  upon  her.  It 
seemed  less  of  a  crime  that  the  little  innocent  babe  should 


86     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

have  been  murdered  in  this  house  and  buried  in  the 
garden  than  that  her  old,  dead  mother  should  have  sold 
it  to  Henry  Shannon.  And  how  was  she  to  know? 
Twenty-five  years  had  passed  since  that  time  when  she 
had  been  at  Death's  door,  nor  realizing  anything.  .  .  . 
And  her  mother  had  never  told  her.  ...  It  would  be 
strange  if  she  had  gone  digging  at  any  time  for  the 
tiny  bones  of  the  little  infant  that  had  never  been  bap- 
tized. People  passing  the  road  might  suspect  her  pur- 
pose and  say  hard  things.  .  .  .  But  sure  they  said  hard 
things  of  her  still  after  all  the  years.  It  was  dreadful 
to  think  how  any  one  could  concoct  a  lie  like  this,  and 
that  no  one  could  forget.  Old  Marse  Prendergast  knew 
well.  Deep  in  her  wicked  mind,  for  twenty-five  years, 
the  secret  had  been  hidden.  It  was  a  torture  to  think 
of  the  way  she  would  be  hinting  at  it  forever.  .  .  .  And 
just  quite  recently  she  had  threatened  to  tell  John. 

Bit  by  bit  was  being  erected  in  her  mind  the  terrible 
speculation  as  to  what  really  was  the  truth  and  the  full 
extent  of  her  sin.  Yet  it  was  not  a  thing  she  could  set 
about  making  inquiries  after.  .  .  .  She  wondered  and 
wondered  did  Myles  Shannon,  the  uncle  of  Ulick,  know 
the  full  truth.  Why  did  not  her  husband  drop  that 
grimy,  powerful  hand?  Her  breasts  craved  its  blow 
now,  even  as  they  had  yearned  long  ago  for  the  fum- 
bling of  the  little,  blind  mouth. 

But  he  was  merely  asking  her  for  money  to  buy  drink 
for  himself  in  Garradrimna.  Hitherto  this  request  had 
always  given  her  pain,  but  now,  somehow,  it  came  dif- 
ferently to  her  ears.  There  was  no  hesitation  on  her 
part,  no  making  of  excuses.  She  went  upstairs  to  the 
box  which  held  her  most  dear  possession — the  money  she 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     87 

had  saved  so  well  through  all  the  years  for  the  fitting- 
out  of  Ned  to  go  proudly  with  her  to  attend  the  ordina- 
tion of  their  son  John.  She  opened  the  box  with  the 
air  of  one  doing  a  deliberate  thing.  The  money,  which 
amounted  in  all  to  about  five  pounds,  was  still  in  the 
form  in  which  she  had  managed  to  scrape  it  together. 
In  notes  and  gold  and  silver,  and  even  copper.  Before 
this  it  would  have  appeared  as  a  sacrilege  on  her  part 
to  have  touched  a  penny  of  it,  but  now  she  had  no 
thought  of  this  kind.  Ned  wanted  the  money  to  pur- 
chase the  means  of  forgetfulness  of  the  great  injury  she 
had  done  him. 

She  counted  thirty  pennies,  one  by  one,  into  the 
pocket  of  her  apron.  This  seemed  the  least  suspicious 
way  of  giving  it  to  him,  for  he  had  still  no  idea  that 
she  could  have  any  little  store  laid  by.  It  was  hardly 
possible  when  one  considered  how  much  he  drank  upon 
ner  in  the  village. 

She  came  down  the  stairs  in  silence,  and  spoke  no 
word  to  him  as  she  handed  over  the  money.  His  lips 
seemed  to  split  into  a  sort  of  sneer  as  he  took  it  from  her. 
Then  he  went  out  the  door  quickly  and  down  the  white 
road  toward  Garradrimna. 

For  the  admiration  and  surprise  of  John  Brennan, 
Ulick  Shannon  had  been  displaying  his  skill  with  the 
wheel.  Soon  the  white,  tidy  houses  beyond  the  valley 
were  whizzing  past  and  they  were  running  down  the 
easy  road  which  led  into  the  village  of  Ballinamult. 
They  had  moved  in  a  continuous  cloud  of  dust  from 
Tullahanogue. 

Ulick  said  he  was  choked  with  dust  as  he  brought  the 


88     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

car  to  a  standstill  outside  the  "North  Leinster  Arms." 
He  marched  deliberately  into  the  public  bar,  and  John 
Brennan  followed  after  with  less  sure  footsteps,  for  it 
was  his  first  appearance  in  a  place  of  this  kind.  There 
was  a  little,  plump  girl  standing  up  on  a  chair  rearrang- 
ing the  bottles  of  whiskey  and  dusting  the  shelves. 

Click  would  seem  to  have  already  visited  this  tavern, 
for  he  addressed  the  girl  rather  familiarly  as  "Mary 
Essie."  She  looked  at  the  young  man  impudently  as 
she  wheeled  around  to  exhibit  herself  to  the  best  advan- 
tage. Ulick  leaned  his  elbows  upon  the  low  counter  and 
gazed  towards  her  with  his  deep,  dark  eyes.  Some  quite 
unaccountable  thing  caused  John  Brennan  to  blush,  but 
he  noticed  that  the  girl  was  not  blushing.  She  was 
more  brazenly  forcing  her  body  into  exhibition. 

Ulick  called  for  a  drink,  whatever  his  friend  Brennan 
would  have,  and  a  bottle  of  Bass  for  himself.  It  ap- 
peared a  little  wrong  to  John  that  he  should  be  about 
to  partake  of  a  drink  in  a  pub.,  for  the  "North  Leinster 
Arms''  was  nothing  more  than  a  sufficiently  bad  public- 
house.  He  had  a  sudden  recollection  of  having  once 
been  given  cakes  and  sweets  in  an  evil-smelling  tap- 
room one  day  he  had  gone  with  his  mother  long  ago  to 
Mullaghowen.  He  thought  of  the  kind  of  wine  he  had 
been  given  that  day  and  immediately  the  name  was 
forced  to  his  lips  by  the  thought — "Port  wine!" 

When  the  barmaid  turned  around  to  fill  their  drinks 
the  young  men  had  a  view  of  the  curves  of  her  body. 
John  Brennan  was  surprised  to  find  himself  dwelling 
upon  them  in  the  intense  way  of  his  friend. 

Before  they  left  Ulick  had  many  drinks  of  various 
kinds,  and  it  was  interesting  to  observe  how  he  ex- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     89 

panded  with  their  influence.  He  began  to  tell  "smutty" 
stories  to  Mary  Essie.  She  listened  with  attention.  No 
blush  came  into  her  face,  and  her  glad  neck  looked 
brazen.  .  .  .  John  Brennan  felt  himself  swallowing  great 
gulps  of  disgust.  .  .  .  His  training  had  led  him  to  asso- 
ciate the  female  form  with  the  angelic  form  coming  down 
from  Heaven.  Yet  here  was  something  utterly  different. 
...  A  vulgar  girl,  with  fat,  round  hands  and  big 
breasts,  her  lips  red  as  a  recent  wound  in  soft  flesh,  and 
looking  lonely. 

He  was  glad  when  they  regained  the  sunlight,  yet  the 
day  was  of  such  a  character  as  creates  oppression  by  the 
very  height  of  its  splendor.  Ulick  was  in  such  a  mood 
for  talk  that  they  had  almost  forgotten  the  luncheon- 
basket  at  the  back  of  the  car. 

Beyond  Ballinamult  they  stopped  again  where  the 
ruins  of  a  moldering  Abbey  lay  quietly  surrounded  by 
a  circle  of  furze-covered  hills.  .  .  .  Ulick  expanded  still 
further  with  the  meal,  yet  his  discourse  still  ran  along 
the  old  trail.  He  was  favoring  his  friend  with  a  sketch 
of  his  life,  and  it  seemed  to  be  made  up  largely  of  the 
women  he  had  known  in  Dublin.  Quite  suddenly  he 
said  what  seemed  to  John  a  very  terrible  thing : 

"I  have  learned  a  lot  from  them,  and  let  me  tell  you 
this — it  has  been  my  experience  that  you  could  not  trust 
your  own  mother  or  the  girl  of  your  heart.  They  seem 
to  lack  control,  even  the  control  of  religion.  They  do  not 
realize  religion  at  all.  They  are  creatures  of  impulse. ' ' 

Here  was  a  sentiment  that  questioned  the  very  fact  of 
existence.  ...  It  seemed  dreadful  to  connect  the  tri- 
umph of  love  and  devotion  that  was  his  mother  with  this 
consequent  suggestion  of  the  failure  of  existence.  .  .  . 


90     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Together  they  went  across  the  grassy  distance  towards 
the  crumbling  ruin  wherein  the  good  monks  of  old  had 
lived  and  prayed.  And  surely,  he  thought,  the  great 
spirit  of  holiness  which  had  led  men  hither  to  spend  their 
lives  in  penance  and  good  works  could  not  have  departed 
finally  from  this  quiet  place,  nor  from  the  green  fields 
beyond  the  rim  of  furze-covered  hills. 

Yet  upon  his  ears  were  falling  the  even,  convincing 
tones  of  (Hick  Shannon,  still  speaking  cynically. 

' '  Behold, ' '  he  was  saying,  ' '  that  it  is  to  this  place  the 
younger  generation  throng  on  the  Sabbath.  Around  you, 
upon  the  ruined  and  bare  walls,  you  will  observe  not 
pious  words,  but  the  coupled  names  of  those  who  have 
come  here  to  sin." 

"And  look  at  this!"  he  exclaimed,  picking  from  a 
niche  in  the  wall  a  long  shin  bone  of  one  of  the  ancient 
monks,  which  possessed  the  reputed  power  of  cures  and 
miracles.  For  a  moment  he  examined  it  with  a  profes- 
sional eye,  then  handed  it  to  John  Brennan.  There  were 
two  names  scribbled  upon  it  in  pencil,  and  beneath  them 
a  lewd  expression.  Ulick  had  only  laid  hands  upon  it  by 
the  merest  accident,  but  it  immediately  gave  body  to  all 
the  airy  ideas  he  had  been  putting  forth.  There  was 
something  so  greatly  irreverent  in  the  appearance  of  this 
accidental  piece  of  evidence  that  no  argument  could  be 
put  forward  against  it.  It  was  terrible  and  conclusive. 

The  evening  was  far  advanced  when  John  Brennan  re- 
turned home.  His  mother  and  father  were  seated  in  the 
kitchen.  His  father  was  drunk,  and  she  was  reading 
him  a  holy  story,  with  an  immeasurable  feeling  of  des- 
pondence in  her  tones.  John  became  aware  of  this  as  he 
entered  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XI 

REBECCA  KERR  had  been  ill  for  a  few  days  and 
did  not  attend  school  until  the  Monday  following 
her  arrival  in  the  valley.  There  she  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  Mrs.  Wyse,  the  principal  of  Tullahanogue  Girls' 
School,  and  Monica  McKeon,  the  assistant  of  Tulla- 
hanogue Boys'  School.  Mrs.  Wyse  was  a  woman  who 
divided  her  energies  between  the  education  of  other 
women's  children  arid  the  production  of  children  of  her 
own.  Year  by  year,  and  with  her  growing  family,  had 
her  life  narrowed  down  to  the  painful  confines  of  its 
present  condition.  She  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
hard  mistress  to  the  children  and  a  harsh  superior  to  her 
assistants.  From  the  very  first  she  seemed  anxious  to 
show  her  authority  over  Rebecca  Kerr. 

In  the  forenoon  of  this  day  she  was  standing  by  her 
blackboard  at  the  east  end  of  the  school,  imparting  some 
history  to  her  most  advanced  class.  Rebecca  was  at  the 
opposite  end  teaching  elementary  arithmetic  to  the 
younger  children  when  something  in  the  would-be  im- 
pressive seriousness  of  her  principal 's  tone  caused  her  to 
smile  openly. 

Mrs.  Wyse  saw  the  smile,  and  it  lit  her  anger.  She 
called  loudly: 

"Miss  Kerr,  are  you  quite  sure  that  that  exercise  in 
simple  addition  is  correct?" 

"Yes,  perfectly  certain,  Mrs.  Wyse." 

91 


92     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

The  chalk  had  slipped  upon  the  greasy  blackboard, 
making  a  certain  5  to  appear  as  a  6  from  the  distance 
at  which  she  stood,  and  it  was  into  this  accidental  trap 
that  Mrs.  Wyse  had  fallen.  Previous  assistants  had 
studied  her  ways  and  had  given  up  the  mistake  of  con- 
tradicting her  even  when  she  was  obviously  in  the  wrong. 
But  this  was  such  a  straight  issue,  and  Rebecca  Kerr 
had  had  no  opportunity  of  knowing  her.  She  came 
down  in  a  naming  temper  from  the  rostrum.  Rebecca 
awaited  her  near  approach  with  a  smiling  and  assured 
complacency  which  must  have  been  maddening.  But 
Mrs.  Wyse  was  not  one  to  admit  a  mistake.  Quick  as 
lightning  she  struck  upon  the  complaint  that  the  exercise 
was  beyond  the  course  of  instruction  scheduled  for  this 
particular  standard.  .  .  .  And  here  were  the  founda- 
tions of  an  enmity  laid  between  these  two  women.  They 
would  not  be  friends  in  any  fine  way  through  the  length 
of  all  the  long  days  they  might  teach  together. 

Thus  for  Rebecca  the  first  day  in  the  valley  school 
dragged  out  its  slow  length  and  was  dreary  and  dread- 
ful until  noon.  Then  Monica  McKeon  came  in  from  the 
Boys'  School  and  they  took  their  luncheon  together. 
.  .  .  They  went  on  chattering  away  until  the  door  of 
the  schoolroom  was  suddenly  darkened  by  the  shadows 
of  two  men.  The  three  women  arose  in  confusion  as 
Master  Donnellan  called  them  to  the  door.  There  was 
a  young  man  standing  outside  who  presented  a  strong 
contrast  to  the  venerable  figure  of  the  master.  The  lat- 
ter, in  his  roundabout,  pedagogic  way,  went  on  to  tell 
how  the  stranger  had  strayed  into  the  school  playground 
and  made  himself  known.  He  wished  to  show  him  the 
whole  of  the  building,  and  introduced  him  as  "Mr.  Ulict 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     93 

Shannon,   Mr.   Myles  Shannon's  nephew,  you  know." 

The  three  female  teachers  took  an  immediate  mental 
note  of  the  young  man.  They  saw  him  as  neat  and  well- 
dressed,  with  a  half -thoughtful,  half-reckless  expression 
upon  his  fine  face,  with  its  deep-set,  romantic  eyes.  The 
few  words  he  spoke  during  the  general  introduction  ap- 
peared to  Rebecca  to  be  in  such  a  gentle  voice.  There 
were  some  moments  of  awkward  silence.  Then,  between 
the  five  of  them,  they  managed  to  say  a  few  conventional 
things.  All  the  while  those  great,  deep  eyes  seemed  to 
be  set  upon  Rebecca,  and  she  was  experiencing  the  dis- 
quieting feeling  that  she  had  met  him  at  some  previous 
time  in  some  other  place  in  this  wide  world.  The  eyes 
of  Monica  McKeon  were  upon  both  of  them  in  a  way 
that  seemed  an  attempt  to  search  their  minds  for  their 
thoughts  of  the  moment. 

Immediately  he  was  gone  Mrs.  Wyse  and  Miss  McKeon 
fell  to  talking  of  him : 

"He's  the  hateful-looking  thing;  I'd  hate  him  like 
poison,"  said  Monica. 

' '  Indeed  what  could  he  be  and  the  kind  of  a  father  he 
had?  Sure  I  remember  him  well,  a  quare  character,'' 
said  Mrs.  Wyse. 

"I  wonder  what  could  have  brought  him  around  here 
to-day  of  all  days  since  he  came  to  Scarden  ? ' ' 

This  with  her  eyes  set  firmly  upon  Rebecca. 

Mrs.  Wyse  was  not  slow  to  pick  up  the  insinuation. 

' '  Oh,  looking  after  fresh  girls  always,  the  same  as  his 
father." 

"He's  not  bad-looking." 

"No;  but  wouldn't  you  know  well  he  has  himself  de- 
stroyed with  the  kind  of  life  he  lives  up  in  Dublin? 


94     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

They  say  he's  gone  to  the  bad  and  that  he'll  never  pass 
his  exams." 

Every  word  of  the  conversation  seemed  to  be  spoken 
with  the  direct  intention  of  attacking  certain  feelings 
which  had  already  begun  to  rise  in  the  breast  of  Rebecca 
Kerr.  .  .  .  Her  mind  was  being  held  fast  by  the  well- 
remembered  spell  of  his  eyes. 

The  afternoon  passed  swiftly  for  Mrs.  Wyse.  She  was 
so  engrossed  by  thought  of  this  small  thing  that  had 
happened  that  she  gave  wrong  dates  in  another  history 
lesson,  false  notes  in  the  music  lesson,  and  more  than  one 
incorrect  answer  to  simple  sums  in  the  arithmetic  les- 
son. 

Rebecca  was  glad  when  three  o'clock  and  her  freedom 
at  last  came.  Out  in  the  sunlight  she  would  be  able  to 
indulge  in  certain  realizations  which  were  impossible  of 
enjoyment  here  in  this  crowded  schoolroom.  The  day 
was  still  enthroned  beneath  the  azure  dome.  This  was 
the  period  of  its  languorous  yawn  when  it  seemed  to 
dream  for  a  space  and  gather  strength  before  it  came 
down  from  its  high  place  and  went  into  the  long,  wind- 
ing ways  of  evening. 

There  were  men  engaged  in  raising  sand  from  a  pit  by 
the  roadside  as  she  passed  along.  A  pause  in  the  ring- 
ing of  their  shovels  made  her  conscious  that  they  had 
stopped  in  their  labor  to  gaze  after  her  as  she  went.  .  .  . 
Her  neck  was  warm  and  blushing  beneath  the  shadow  of 
her  hair. 

Her  confusion  extended  to  every  portion  of  her  body 
when  she  came  upon  Ulick  Shannon  around  a  bend  of 
the  road,  book  in  hand,  sauntering  along. 

He  saluted  as  she  overtook  him,  and  spoke  of  the  pleas- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     95 

ant  afternoon.  .  .  .  She  hoped  he  was  enjoying  his  holi- 
days here  in  the  valley.  He  seemed  to  be  spending  the 
time  very  quietly.  Reading?  Poetry?  Just  fancy! 
The  Daffodil  Fields,  by  John  Masefield.  What  a  pretty 
name?  Was  he  devoted  to  poetry,  and  was  this  par- 
ticular poem  a  good  one? 

"It  is  a  great  tale  of  love  and  passion  that  happened 
in  one  of  the  quiet  places  of  the  world/ '  he  told  her  with 
a  kind  of  enthusiasm  coming  into  his  words  for  the  first 
time. 

"One  of  the  quiet  places?"  she  murmured,  evidently 
at  a  loss  for  something  else  to  say. 

"Yes,  a  quiet  place  which  must  have  been  like  this 
place  and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  most  wonderfully  dif- 
ferent, for  no  poet  at  all  could  imagine  any  tale  of  love 
and  passion  springing  from  the  life  about  us  here.  The 
people  of  the  valley  seem  to  have  died  before  they  were 
born.  I  will  lend  you  this  poem,  if  you'd  care  to  have 
it." 

' '  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Shannon ! ' '  she  said. 

They  had  wandered  down  a  lane  which  led  from  the 
high  road  towards  the  peaceful  fields  beyond  the  little 
lake.  This  lane,  he  told  her,  was  called  "The  Eoad  of 
the  Dead, ' '  and  would  afford  her  a  short  cut  to  her  lodg- 
ing at  Sergeant  McGoldrick's. 

For  lack  of  anything  else  to  say,  she  remarked  upon 
the  strangeness  of  this  name — The  Road  of  the  Dead. 
He  said  it  seemed  a  title  particularly  suitable.  He  went 
on  to  elaborate  the  idea  he  had  just  expressed: 

"Around  and  about  here  they  are  all  dead — dead. 
No  passion  of  any  kind  comes  to  light  their  existence. 
Their  life  is  a  thing  done  meanly,  shudderingly  within 


96     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  shadow  of  the  grave.  That  is  how  I  have  been  see- 
ing it  for  the  past  few  weeks.  They  hate  the  occurrence 
of  new  people  in  their  midst.  They  hate  me  already, 
and  now  they  will  hate  you.  The  sight  of  us  walking 
together  like  this  must  surely  cause  them  to  hate  us  still 
more. ' ' 

She  was  wondering  that  his  words  should  hold  a  sense 
of  consideration  for  her,  seeing  that  they  had  been  ac- 
quainted only  such  a  short  while. 

"This  way  leads  from  a  graveyard  to  a  graveyard, 
and  they  have  a  silly  superstition  that  dead  couples  are 
sometimes  seen  walking  here.  Particularly  dismal  also 
do  I  consider  this  picture  of  their  imagination.  The 
idea  of  any  one  thinking  us  a  dead  couple ! ' ' 

As  he  said  this  her  blushing  cheek  showed  certainly 
that  life  was  strong  in  her.  .  .  .  Upon  the  wings  of  his 
words  grand  thoughts  had  gone  flying  through  her  mind. 
All  day  she  had  been  looking  forward  with  dread  to  the 
yellow,  sickly,  sunlit  time  after  school.  And  now  to 
think  that  the  miracle  of  this  romantic  young  man  had 
happened.  .  .  .  Both  grew  silent.  Kebecca's  eyes  were 
filling  with  visions  and  wandering  over  a  field  of  young 
green  corn.  They  were  dancing  upon  the  waves  of  sun- 
light which  shimmered  over  all  the  clean,  feathery  sur- 
face of  the  field.  The  eyes  of  Ulick  were  straying  from 
the  landscape  and  dwelling  upon  her  deeply,  upon  the 
curves  of  her  throat  and  bosom,  and  upon  the  gentle 
billows  of  her  hair.  Over  all  his  face  was  clouding  that 
mysterious,  murky  expression  which  had  come  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  little  barmaid  of  the  "North  Leinster 
Arms"  a  few  days  previously. 


CHAPTER  XII 

REBECCA  wanted  some  light  blouses.  Those  she 
possessed  had  survived  through  one  summer,  and 
it  was  all  that  could  be  expected  of  them.  So  one  day 
she  ran  down  to  Brennan's,  during  the  half  hour  allowed 
for  recreation,  to  leave  the  order.  When  she  entered  the 
sewing-room  Mrs.  Brennan  was  busy  at  her  machine. 
Her  ever-tired  eyes  struggled  into  a  beaming  look  upon 
Rebecca. 

The  young  girl,  with  her  rich  body,  seemed  to  bring  a 
clean  freshness  into  the  room.  For  a  moment  the  heavy 
smell  of  the  miscellaneous  materials  about  her  died  down 
in  the  nostrils  of  Mrs.  Brennan.  But  this  might  have 
arisen  from  a  lapse  of  other  faculties  occasioned  by  her 
agreeable  surprise.  So  here  was  the  new  teacher  who 
had  so  recently  occupied  her  tongue  to  such  an  extent. 
She  now  beheld  her  hungrily. 

Rebecca  laid  her  small  parcel  of  muslin  upon  the  table, 
and  became  seated  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Brennan. 

"That's  the  grand  day,  ma'am,"  said  she. 

"  'Tis  the  grand  day  indeed,  miss,"  said  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan. 

"Not  nice,  however,  to  be  in  a  stuffy  schoolroom." 

"Indeed  you  might  swear  that,  especially  in  such  a 
school  as  Tullahanogue,  with  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Wyse; 
she's  the  nice-looking  article  of  a  mistress!" 

Rebecca  almost  bounded  in  her  chair.  She  had 
97 


98     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

fancied  Mrs.  Brennan,  from  the  nature  of  her  occupa- 
tion, as  a  gabster,  but  she  had  not  reckoned  upon  such  a 
sudden  and  emphatic  confirmation  of  her  notion.  Im- 
mediately she  tried  to  keep  the  conversation  from  tak- 
ing this  turn,  which,  in  a  way,  might  bring  it  to  a  per- 
sonal issue.  But  Mrs.  Brennan  was  not  to  be  baulked 
of  her  opportunity. 

She  began  to  favor  her  visitor  with  a  biography  of 
Mrs.  Wyse.  It  was  a  comprehensive  study,  including 
all  her  aspects  and  phases.  Her  father  and  his  exact 
character,  and  her  mother  and  what  she  was.  Her  hus- 
band, and  how  the  marriage  had  been  arranged.  How 
she  had  managed  to  gain  her  position.  Everything  was 
explained  with  a  wealth  of  detail. 

Rebecca  out  of  the  haze  into  which  the  garrulous  re- 
cital had  led  her,  spoke  suddenly  and  reminded  Mrs. 
Brennan  of  the  passage  of  the  half  hour.  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan quickly  fancied  that  the  cause  of  the  girl's  lack  of 
enthusiasm  in  this  outpouring  of  information  might 
have  arisen  from  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Wyse  had  forestalled 
her  with  a  previous  attack.  Thus,  by  a  piece  of  swift 
transition,  she  must  turn  the  light  upon  herself  and 
upon  the  far,  bright  period  of  her  young  girlhood. 

Now  maybe  Miss  Kerr  would  like  to  look  through  the 
album  of  photos  upon  the  table.  This  was  a  usual  ex- 
tension of  feminine  curiosity.  .  .  .  Rebecca  opened  the 
heavy,  embossed  album  and  began  to  turn  over  the 
pages.  .  .  .  There  was  a  photo  of  a  young  girl  near  the 
beginning.  She  was  of  considerable  beauty,  even  so  far 
as  could  be  discerned  from  this  faded  photo,  taken  in  the 
early  eighties.  As  Rebecca  lingered  over  it,  the  face  of 
Mrs.  Brennan  was  lit  by  a  sad  smile. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     99 

"She  was  nice,  and  who  might  she  have  been?"  said 
Eebecca. 

"That  was  me  when  I  was  little  and  innocent,"  said 
Mrs.  Brennan. 

Rebecca  looked  from  Mrs.  Brennan  to  the  photo,  and 
again  from  the  photo  to  Mrs.  Brennan.  She  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  this  young  girl,  with  the  long, 
brown  hair  and  the  look  of  pure  innocence  in  the  fine 
eyes,  could  be  the  faded,  anxious,  gossipy  woman  sitting 
here  at  her  labor  in  this  room.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  the 
years  before  herself  and  of  all  the  tragedy  of  woman- 
hood. .  .  .  There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  space. 
Mrs.  Brennan  appeared  as  if  she  had  been  overpowered 
by  some  sad  thought,  for  not  a  word  fell  from  her  as  she 
began  to  untie  the  parcel  of  blouse  material  her  customer 
had  brought.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  wide  noontide 
stillness  save  the  light  fall  of  the  album  leaves  as  they 
were  being  turned.  .  .  .  Rebecca  had  paused  again,  and 
this  time  was  studying  the  photos  of  two  young  men  set 
in  opposite  pages.  Both  were  arrayed  in  the  fashions 
of  1890,  and  each  had  the  same  correct,  stiff  pose  by  an 
impossible-looking  pedestal,  upon  which  a  French-gray 
globe  reposed.  But  there  was  a  great  difference  to  be 
immediately  observed  as  existing  between  the  two  men. 
One  was  handsome  and  of  such  a  bearing  as  instantly 
appeals  to  feminine  eyes.  It  was  curious  that  they 
should  have  been  placed  in  such  contiguous  contradis- 
tinction, for  the  other  man  seemed  just  the  very  op- 
posite in  every  way  to  the  one  who  was  so  handsome. 
It  could  not  have  been  altogether  by  accident,  was  Re- 
becca's thought,  and,  with  the  intuition  of  a  woman  at 
work  in  her,  she  proceeded  to  lay  the  foundations  of  a 


100     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

romance.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Brennan  was  observing  her  closely, 
and  it  grew  upon  her  that  she  had  been  destined  to  bare 
her  soul  to  this  girl  in  this  moment. 

"That  was  the  nice  young  man,"  said  Rebecca,  in- 
dicating the  one  who,  despite  his  stiff  pose  by  the  ped- 
estal, looked  soldierly  with  his  great  mustache. 

''Indeed  he  was  all  that,"  said  Mrs.  Brennan.  "I 
met  him  when  I  was  away  off  in  England.  He  was  a 
rich,  grand  young  man,  and  as  fond  of  me  as  the  day  was 
long ;  but  he  was  a  Protestant  and  fearful  of  his  people 
to  change  his  religion,  and  to  be  sure  I  could  not  change 
mine.  For  the  sake  of  me  holy  religion  I  gave  up  all 
thoughts  of  him  and  married  Ned  Brennan,  whose  like- 
ness you  see  on  the  other  page. ' ' 

Rebecca  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  album  and  looked  full 
at  Mrs.  Brennan.  She  wondered  how  much  truth  could 
be  in  this  story.  The  dressmaker  was  a  coarse  woman 
and  not  at  all  out  of  place  in  this  mean  room.  She 
imagined  the  heavy  husband  of  her  choice  as  a  suitable 
mate  for  her. 

This  sudden  adoption  of  the  attitude  of  a  kind  of 
martyr  did  not  seem  to  fit  well  upon  her.  Rebecca  could 
not  so  quickly  imagine  her  as  having  done  a  noble  and 
heroic  thing  for  which  she  had  not  received  sufficient 
beatification. 

Rebecca  was  still  turning  the  leaves.  She  had  hurried 
through  this  little  pageant  of  other  generations,  and  was 
at  the  last  pages.  Now  she  was  among  people  of  the 
present,  and  her  attention  was  no  longer  held  by  the 
peculiarities  of  the  costumes.  .  .  .  Her  mind  was  begin- 
ning to  wander.  Suddenly  she  was  looking  down  upon  a 
photo  in  the  older  style  and  the  anachronism  was  start- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     101 

ling.  Had  it  been  placed  in  any  other  portion  of  the 
album  she  might  not  have  so  particularly  noticed  it.  It 
was  the  likeness  of  a  dark,  handsome  man  on  horse- 
back. 

"Who  was  he?''  she  said,  almost  unconsciously. 

A  flush  passed  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Brennan,  but  she 
recovered  herself  by  an  effort.  She  smiled  queerly 
through  her  confusion  and  said : 

"Indeed  'tis  you  who  ought  to  know  that." 

"How  should  I  know?" — Rebecca  was  amazed. 

"Don't  you  know  Ulick  Shannon?" 

It  was  now  Rebecca 's  turn  to  be  confused. 

Fancy  this  woman  knowing  that  she  had  been  talk- 
ing just  once  with  Ulick  Shannon.  .  .  .  Evidently  the 
tongue  of  this  place  had  already  begun  to  curl  around 
her. 

"But  this  is  not  Ulick  Shannon!"  She  blushed  as 
she  found  herself  speaking  his  name. 

"No,  but  it  is  the  photo  of  his  dead  father,  Henry 
Shannon." 

Mrs.  Brennan  heaved  a  great  sigh  as  she  said  this. 
She  rose  from  her  seat  by  the  machine  and  moved  to- 
wards the  place  where  Rebecca  was  bending  over  the 
album.  She  gazed  down  at  the  picture  of  the  dead  man 
with  moist  eyes.  .  .  .  There  was  silence  between  them 
now  for  what  seemed  a  long  time.  Rebecca  became 
alarmed  as  she  thought  that  she  might  have  overstayed 
the  half  hour.  At  the  school  the  priest  or  the  inspector 
might  have  called  and  found  her  absent  from  her  post. 

She  broke  in  abruptly  upon  Mrs.  Brennan 's  fit  of  in- 
trospection, and  gave  a  few  hurried  orders  about  the 
blouses. 


102     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Will  you  be  giving  me  the  making  of  your  next  new 
costume?"  said  Mrs.  Brennan. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry — I  don't  think  so.  You  see  I  have 
it  being  made  already  in  Dublin." 

"In  Dublin  itself?  Well,  well!  that'll  be  the  great 
style. ' ' 

She  felt  it  as  an  affront  to  her  reputation  that  any  one 
who  lived  in  the  neighborhood  should  patronize  other 
places  for  their  needs.  She  took  such  doings  as  exhibi- 
tions of  spite  and  malice  against  her.  And,  somehow, 
she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  idea  now,  although  this  girl 
evidently  knew  nothing  of  her  history. 

She  was  seeing  Rebecca  to  the  door  when  John  Bren- 
nan came  up  the  little  path.  She  introduced  him,  and 
told  how  he  was  her  son  and,  with  vanity  in  her  tones, 
that  he  was  going  to  be  a  priest. 

"That'll  give  her  something  to  think  of,  with  her 
slighting  me  be  telling  how  she  was  having  her  costume 
made  be  another.  A  woman  that's  going  to  have  a  son 
a  priest  ought  to  be  good  enough  to  make  for  her,  and 
she  a  whipster  that's  after  coming  from  God  knows 
where." 

The  mind  of  Mrs.  Brennan  was  saying  this  to  itself 
as  she  stood  there  at  her  own  door  gazing  in  pride  upon 
her  son.  Rebecca  Kerr  was  looking  up  into  his  face 
with  a  laugh  in  her  eyes.  He  was  such  a  nice  young 
fellow,  she  was  thinking.  John  Brennan  was  blushing 
in  the  presence  of  this  girl  and  glancing  shyly  at  her 
hair. 

Suddenly  she  broke  away  from  them  with  a  laughing 
word  upon  her  lips,  ran  out  to  the  road,  and  down  to- 
wards the  school. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     103 

"She's  a  very  nice  girl,  mother." 

"Oh!  indeed  she's  not  much,  John;  and  I  knew  well 
I  wouldn't  like  her  from  the  very  first  I  heard  tell  of 
her  coming." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LARGE  posters  everywhere  announced  the  holding  of 
a  concert  in  Garradrimna.  As  in  many  other  as- 
pects of  life  in  the  village,  it  was  not  given  to  John 
Brennan  to  see  their  full  meaning.  He  had  not  even 
seen  in  Thomas  James,  who  posted  the  bills,  a  symbolic 
figure,  but  only  one  whom  disaster  had  overtaken 
through  the  pursuit  of  his  passion.  For  many  a  year 
had  Thomas  James  gone  about  in  this  way,  foretelling 
some  small  event  in  the  life  of  Garradrimna.  Now  it 
was  a  race-meeting  or  a  circus,  again  an  auction  or  a 
fair.  All  the  while  he  had  been  slipping  into  his  pres- 
ent condition,  and  herein  lay  the  curious  pathos  of  him. 
For  he  would  never  post  like  this  the  passing  of  his 
own  life;  he  would  never  set  up  a  poster  of  Eternity. 

It  was  curious  to  think  of  that,  no  poster  at  all  of  the 
exact  moment  amid  the  mass  of  Time  when  the  Great 
White  Angel  would  blow  his  blast  upon  the  Shining 
Trumpet  to  awaken  all  Earth  by  its  clear,  wide  ringing 
across  the  Seven  Seas. 

John  Brennan  spoke  to  his  mother  of  the  concert. 

"The  cheek  of  them  I  do  declare,  with  their  concert. 
People  don't  find  it  hard  enough  to  get  their  money 
without  giving  it  to  them.  Bits  of  shop-boys  and  shop- 
girls! But  I  suppose  they  want  new  clothes  and  cos- 
tumes for  the  summer.  I'll  go  bail  you'll  see  them  girls 
with  new  hats  after  this  venture. ' ' 

104 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      105 

"The  bills  announce  that  it  is  for  the  Temperance 
Club  funds." 

"And  them's  the  quare  funds,  you  might  say,  and  the 
quare  club.  Young  fellows  and  young  girls  meeting  in 
the  one  room  to  get  up  plays.  No  good  can  come  of  it. ' ' 

"Of  course  we  need  not  attend  if  we  don't  like." 

"Ah,  we  must  go  all  the  same.  If  we  didn't,  'tis  what 
they  would  say  mebbe  that  we  hadn't  the  means,  and  so 
we  must  let  them  know  that  we  have.  It  wouldn't  be 
nice  to  see  you  away  from  it." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  go,  mother,  I  assure  you.  A 
quiet  evening  more  or  less  will  not  matter." 

"But  sure  it'll  be  a  bit  of  diversion  and  amusement." 

' '  Yes,  that  is  exactly  what  I  was  thinking,  so  I  didn  't 
see  anything  very  wrong  in  going  or  in  supporting  those 
who  organized  it.  But  if  you  don't  care  to  go,  it  does 
not  matter.'' 

"Ah,  but  wouldn't  it  be  the  quare  thing  to  see  your 
mother  ignorant  and  not  having  a  word  to  say  about 
what  was  after  passing  to  any  one  that  would  come  in, 
and  they  knowing  the  whole  thing  ?  Now  what  you  '11  do 
for  me,  John,  is  this.  You'll  go  into  Phillips 's  this  even- 
ing and  get  two  of  the  most  expensive  tickets,  one  for 
yourself  and  one  for  me." 

John  Brennan  had  a  momentary  realization  of  the 
pitiful  vanity  behind  this  speech.  He  remained  think- 
ing while  she  went  upstairs  for  the  price  of  the  tickets, 
for  that  must  be  her  object,  he  fancied,  in  ascending  into 
the  upper  story.  He  could  hear  her  moving  a  trunk 
and  opening  it.  The  sounds  came  to  him  with  perfect 
clearness  in  the  still  room  and  struck  him  with  a  sense 
of  their  little  mournfulness,  even  though  he  was  quite 


106     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

unaware  that  his  mother  had  secretly  begun  the  destruc- 
tion of  a  bright  portion  of  her  life's  dream. 

In  the  evening  he  went  to  the  village  for  the  tickets. 

"It  11  be  a  grand  turn-out,' *  said  Jimmy  Phillips,  as 
he  took  in  the  money  and  blinked  in  anticipation  with 
his  one  eye. 

"I'm  sure, "  said  John,  as  he  left  the  little  shop  where 
you  might  buy  the  daily  newspaper  and  sweets  and 
everything. 

He  strolled  up  the  street  towards  the  old  castle  of  the 
De  Laeys.  The  local  paper,  published  at  Mullaghowen, 
was  never  tired  of  setting  down  its  fame.  The  uncouth 
historians  of  the  village  had  almost  exhausted  their  ad- 
jectives in  relating  the  exploits  of  this  marauding  baron 
of  the  Normans  who  had  here  built  him  a  fortress,  from 
which  his  companies  of  conquering  freebooters  had 
sallied  forth  so  long  ago.  Yet,  as  an  extraordinary  mis- 
take on  the  part  of  those  who  concerned  themselves  so 
intimately  with  the  life  around  them,  they  had  altogether 
missed  the  human  side  of  the  crumbling  ruin.  Of  what 
romances  of  knighthood  it  had  once  been  the  scene  ?  Of 
what  visions  of  delight  when  fair  women  had  met 
cuirassed  gallants?  Of  all  that  pride  which  must  have 
reared  itself  aloft  in  this  place  which  was  now  the  resort, 
by  night,  of  the  most  humble  creatures  of  the  wild* 
Not  one  of  them  had  ever  been  able  to  fancy  the  thoughts 
which  must  have  filled  the  mind  of  Hugh  De  Lacy  as 
he  drew  near  this  noble  monument  of  his  glory  after 
some  successful  expedition  against  the  chieftains  of  the 
Pale. 

Through  the  thin  curtain  of  the  twilight  John  Bren- 
nan  saw  two  figures  stealing  from  the  labyrinthine  ways 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     107 

which  led  beneath  the  castle  into  what  were  known  as 
"The  Cells."  These  were  dark,  narrow  places  in  which 
two  together  would  be  in  close  proximity,  and  it  was 
out  from  them  that  this  man  and  this  woman  were  now 
stealing.  He  could  not  be  certain  of  their  identity,  but 
they  looked  like  two  whom  he  knew.  .  .  .  And  he  had 
heard  that  Rebecca  Kerr  was  going  to  sing  at  the  con- 
cert, and  also  that  Uliek  Shannon  was  coaching  the  Gar- 
radrimna  Dramatic  Class  in  the  play  they  were  to  pro- 
duce, which  was  one  he  had  seen  at  the  Abbey  Theater. 
...  A  curious  thrill  ran  through  him  which  was  like  a 
spasm  of  pain.  Could  it  be  this  girl  and  this  young  man 
who  had  spoken  with  such  disgusting  intimacy  of  the 
female  sex  in  the  bar  of  the  "North  Leinster  Arms"  in 
Ballinamult.  .  .  .  *  They  went  by  a  back  way  into  the 
Club,  where  the  rehearsals  were  now  going  forward. 

John  Brennan  was  sitting  stiffly  beside  his  mother  in 
the  front  seats.  Around  and  about  him  were  people  of 
renowned  respectability,  who  had  also  paid  two  shillings 
each  for  their  tickets.  The  seven  publicans  of  Garra- 
drimna  were  there,  some  with  their  wives,  some  with 
their  wives  and  daughters,  and  some  with  their  wives 
and  daughters  and  sisters-in-law.  The  Clerk  of  the 
Union  continually  adjusting  and  re-adjusting  his  lemon- 
colored  gloves.  The  old  bespectacled  maid  from  the 
Post  Office  sitting  near  the  gray,  bullet-headed  postmas- 
ter, whose  apoplectic  jowl  was  shining.  They  were 
keeping  up  a  continual  chatter  and  buzz  and  giggle  be- 
fore the  rise  of  the  curtain.  The  jaws  of  the  ancient 
postmistress  never  ceased  to  work,  and  those  hot  words 
of  criticism  and  scorn  which  did  not  sizzle  outwardly 


108     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

from  her  lips  dropped  inwardly  to  feed  the  fire  of  her 
mind,  which  was  a  volcano  in  perpetual  eruption. 

Mrs.  Brennan  sat  in  silence  by  the  side  of  her  son,  in 
the  pride  of  his  presence,  glad  that  he  and  she  were  here. 
She  was  as  fine  as  any  of  them,  for  she  kept  fine  raiment 
for  such  occasions.  In  the  first  place  as  an  advertise- 
ment for  her  craft  of  dressmaker,  and,  secondly,  to  afford 
a  cloak  for  her  past,  even  as  those  among  whom  she  sat 
cloaked  their  pasts  in  heavy  garments  of  pride.  Her 
attention  was  concentrated  not  so  much  upon  the  per- 
formance she  was  about  to  witness  as  upon  the  audience 
assembled  to  witness  it.  To  her  the  audience  was  the 
concert,  and,  although  she  was  speaking  no  word,  she  was 
as  nervously  observant  as  the  old  postmistress.  She  was 
concerned  by  the  task  before  her,  for  would  she  not  be 
in  honor  bound  to  "go  over"  all  that  passed  to  any  one 
who  might  happen  into  the  sewing-room  next  day,  and 
lay  everything  bare  with  a  searching  and  deadly  analysis 
for  her  son  John?  Thus  was  she  not  distracted  by  the 
chattering  and  giggling,  but  perfectly  at  ease  while  her 
mind  worked  nimbly  within  the  limits  of  its  purpose. 

The  mind  of  John  Brennan  was  not  enjoying  the  same 
contentment.  He  was  a  little  excited  by  the  presence 
of  Rebecca  Kerr  on  a  seat  adjacent.  She  had  a  place 
on  the  program,  and  was  awaiting  her  time  to  appear. 
His  eye  was  dwelling  upon  her  hair,  which  lifted  grace- 
fully from  her  white  neck  in  a  smooth  wave  of  gold.  It 
was  the  fairest  thing  in  this  clouded  place  of  human 
fumes,  and  the  dear  softness  from  which  it  sprang  such 
a  recess  of  beauty. 

The  concert  had  at  last  begun.  Harry  Holton,  the 
comic,  was  holding  the  stage  and  the  audience  was  in 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     109 

convulsions.  Harry  Holton  was  a  distant  disciple  of 
Harry  Lauder.  Having  heard  the  funny  Scotchman 
upon  the  grainaphone  he  rather  fancied  that  it  was  he 
who  should  have  been  Harry  Lauder.  In  course  of  time, 
he  had  grown  to  think  that  it  was  Lauder  and  not  him- 
self who  was  doing  the  impersonation.  His  effort  to  be 
broadly  Scotch,  while  the  marks  of  the  son  of  Erin  were 
so  strong  upon  him,  was  where,  all  unseen,  his  power  to 
move  towards  laughter  really  lay.  Yet  the  audience 
rocked  its  sides  in  crude  mirth  at  this  crude  exhibition, 
and  each  man  asked  his  neighbor  was  it  not  the  funniest 
damned  thing?  The  seven  sleek  publicans  of  Garra- 
drimna  threatened  to  explode.  .  .  .  John  Brennan  saw 
big  beads  of  perspiration  rise  upon  the  comedian's  brow 
and  gleam  in  the  sickly  glare  of  the  lamplight.  Beyond 
the  excitement,  from  behind  the  scenes,  came  a  new 
sound — the  popping  of  a  cork — and  through  a  chink 
in  the  back  cloth  he  saw  Ulick  Shannon  take  his  drink 
from  the  bottle.  .  .  .  Had  Rebecca  Kerr  seen  that  as 

well  as  he  or .    But  his  speculation  was  cut  short 

by  the  exit  of  the  comedian  after  many  encores,  amidst 
tumultuous  applause. 

Next  came  Agnes  McKeon,  a  near  relation  of  Monica 's 
and  the  schoolmistress  of  Ballinamult.  Her  big  spec- 
tacles gave  her  the  look  of  her  profession,  and  although 
she  sang  well  in  a  pleasing  contralto,  she  appeared  stiff 
and  unalluring  in  her  white  dress,  which  was  starched 
to  a  too  strong  resplendence.  John  heard  two  old  maids 
with  scraggy  necks  remarking,  not  upon  the  power  of 
Miss  McKeon 's  voice,  but  upon  the  extraordinary  white- 
ness of  her  dress,  and  saying  it  was  grand  surely,  but 
they  anxiously  wondered  were  all  her  garments  as  clean 


110     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

for  they  were  ready  to  credit  her  with  extreme  sloven- 
liness of  habit. 

The  play  was  the  notable  event  of  the  evening.  Al- 
though the  work  of  a  famous  Abbey  playwright,  it  had 
been  evidently  re-written  for  Harry  Holton,  who  was 
the  principal  character.  It  was  purely  a  Harry  Holton 
show.  Dramatic  point  and  sequence  were  sacrificed  to 
give  scope  to  his  renowned  abilities.  The  other  players 
would  seem  to  have  merged  themselves  to  give  him 
prominence.  But  the  ladies  had  not  merged  their  nat- 
ural vanity.  One  in  particular,  who  was  supposed  to 
represent  an  old  woman  of  Ireland,  wore  an  attractive 
dress  which  was  in  the  prevailing  fashion.  It  was  the 
illiterate  pronunciation  of  even  the  simplest  words 
which  chiefly  amused  John  Brennan.  Herein  might  be 
detected  the  touch  of  Ulick  Shannon,  who,  in  coaching 
the  production,  had  evidently  added  this  means  of 
diversion  for  his  own  amusement.  John  fancied  that 
his  friend  must  be  enjoying  it  hugely  in  there  behind 
the  scenes. 

When  the  play  had  been  concluded  by  Harry  Holton 
giving  a  few  steps  of  a  dance,  John  Brennan  saw  Re- 
becca moving  towards  the  stage.  He  observed  the  light 
grace  with  which  she  went  to  the  ordeal.  Here  was  no 
self-consciousness,  but  instead  that  easy  quietness  which 
is  a  part  of  dignity.  ...  It  was  Ulick  Shannon  who  held 
aside  the  curtain  allowing  her  to  pass  in  upon  the  stage. 

"Well  now,  isn't  that  one  the  brazen  thing?" 

This  was  the  expression  of  opinion  which  came  clearly 
from  out  the  whispering  and  giggling.  It  was  an  un- 
pardonable offense  to  appear  in  public  like  this  with- 
out a  certain  obvious  fluttering  and  fear  which  it  was 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     111 

one  of  Garradrimna's  most  notable  powers  to  create.  It 
was  a  great  flout.  Even  his  mother  was  moved  to  nudge 
him,  so  unusual  was  the  method  of  this  strange  girl,  ap- 
pearing in  public  before  the  place  into  which  she  had 
come  to  earn  a  living. 

But  she  was  singing.  Rebecca  Kerr  was  singing,  and 
to  John  Brennan  this  was  all  he  wished  to  know.  He 
trembled  as  he  listened  and  grew  weary  with  delight. 
He  became  nervous,  as  before  some  unaccountable  ap- 
prehension, and  turned  to  his  mother.  She  was  looking 
quizzically  at  the  girl  on  the  stage.  But  the  stage  to  him 
was  now  a  sort  of  haze  through  which  there  moved  ever 
little  dancing  specks. 

The  concert  was  over  and  his  mind  had  not  yet  re- 
turned to  realization.  Rebecca  had  not  come  from  be- 
hind the  scenes.  He  moved  with  his  mother  out  into 
the  night,  and,  as  they  went,  glanced  around  the  corner 
of  the  hall.  He  saw  Rebecca  Kerr  and  Ulick  Shannon 
standing  within  the  shadow  of  the  surrounding  wood. 
He  spoke  no  word  to  his  mother  as  they  went  down  the 
road  towards  the  house  in  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AS  if  from  the  excitement  of  the  concert,  John  Bren- 
nan  felt  weary  next  morning.  He  had  been 
awake  since  early  hours  listening  to  the  singing  of  the 
birds  in  all  the  trees  near  the  house.  The  jolly  sounds 
came  to  him  as  a  great  comfort.  Consequently  it  was 
with  an  acute  sensation  of  annoyance  that  there  crowded 
in  upon  his  sense  of  hearing  little  distracting  noises. 
Now  it  was  the  heavy  rumble  of  a  cart,  again  the  screech 
of  a  bicycle  ridden  by  Farrell  McGuinness  on  his  way 
to  Garradrimna  for  the  letters  of  his  rounds;  and,  con- 
tinually, the  hard  rasp  of  nailed  boots  upon  the  gravel 
of  the  road. 

His  mother  was  moving  about  in  the  sewing-room  be- 
neath. He  could  hear  the  noise  made  by  her  scissors  as, 
from  time  to  time,  she  laid  it  down  and  picked  it  up 
again,  while,  mingled  with  these  actions,  occasionally 
came  up  to  him  the  little,  unmusical  song  of  the  ma- 
chine. His  father  was  still  snoring. 

Last  night  Eebecca  Kerr  had  shone  in  his  eyes.  .  .  . 
But  how  exactly  had  she  appeared  before  the  eyes  of 
Garradrimna  and  the  valley?  After  what  manner 
would  she  survive  the  strong  blast  of  talk?  The  out- 
look of  his  mother  would  be  representative  of  the  feel- 
ing which  had  been  created.  Yet  he  felt  that  it  would 
be  repugnant  to  him  to  speak  with  his  mother  of  Re- 
becca Kerr.  There  would  be  that  faded  woman,  look- 

112 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      113 

ing  at  him  with  a  kind  of  loving  anxiety  which  seemed 
always  to  have  the  effect  of  crushing  him  back  relent- 
lessly towards  the  realities  of  the  valley  and  his  own 
reality.  After  his  thoughts  of  last  night  and  this  morn- 
ing he  hated  to  face  his  mother. 

When  at  last  he  went  down  into  the  room  where  she 
sat  sewing  he  had  such  an  unusual  look  in  his  eyes  as 
seemed  to  require  the  solace  of  an  incident  to  fill  it. 
If  he  had  expected  to  find  a  corresponding  look  upon 
his  mother's  face  he  was  disappointed.  It  seemed  to 
wear  still  the  quizzical  expression  of  last  night,  and  a 
slight  curl  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth  told  that 
her  mind  was  being  sped  by  some  humorous  or  satirical 
impulse. 

"  Whatever  was  the  matter  with  you  last  night, 
John?"  she  asked. 

She  did  not  give  him  time  to  frame  an  answer,  but 
went  on: 

"And  I  dying  down  dead  to  talk  to  you  about  the 
concert,  I  could  not  get  you  to  speak  one  word  to  me 
and  we  coming  home." 

He  noticed  that  she  was  in  good  heart,  and,  although 
it  was  customary  with  him  to  be  pleased  to  see  his  mother 
in  a  mood  of  gladness,  he  could  not  enter  into  laughter 
and  gossip  with  her  now. 

But  she  could  not  be  silent.  This  small  expedition 
into  the  outer  world  of  passing  events  was  now  causing 
her  mind  to  leap,  with  surprising  agility,  from  topic  to 
topic.  .  .  .  Yet  what  was  striking  John  more  than  her 
talk,  and  with  a  more  arresting  realization,  was,  that 
although  the  hour  of  his  Mass-going  was  imminent,  she 
was  not  reminding  him  or  urging  him  to  remembrance 


114     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

of  the  good  custom.  ...  At  last  he  was  driven  by  some 
scruple  to  remind  her  of  the  time,  and  it  was  her  an- 
swer that  finally  amazed  him: 

"Ah,  sure  you  mightn't  go  to-day,  John.  You're 
tired  and  all  to  that,  I  know,  and  I  want  to  tell  you.  .  .  . 
He !  he !  he !  Now  wasn  't  it  the  funniest  thing  to  see 
the  schoolmistress  of  Ballinamult  and  the  schoolmistress 
of  Tullahanogue  and  they  up  upon  the  one  stage  with 
Harry  Helton's  dramatics  making  sport  for  a  lot  of 
grinning  idiots  ?  Like  a  couple  of  circus  girls  they  were, 
the  brazen  things!  Indeed  Miss  Kerr  is  the  bold-look- 
ing hussy,  with  not  a  bit  of  shame  in  her  at  all.  But 
sure  we  may  say  she  fell  among  her  equals,  for  there 
wasn't  much  class  connected  with  it  anyhow." 

"I  think  Ulick  Shannon  was  knocking  about  the 
stage." 

The  words  strayed,  without  much  sense  of  meaning  or 
direction,  out  of  the  current  of  his  musing,  but  they 
produced  a  swift  and  certain  effect  upon  Mrs.  Brennan. 
Her  eyes  seemed  to  cloud  suddenly  behind  her  glasses. 

"Aye  ...  I  wonder  who  was  the  girl  he  went  off 
with  through  the  wood  as  we  came  out.  Never  fear  it 
was  the  new  schoolmistress." 

She  said  this  with  a  curious,  dead  quietness  in  her 
tones,  and  when  she  had  spoken  she  seemed  instantly 
sorry  that  the  words  had  slipped  from  her  lips.  ...  It 
seemed  a  queer  thing  to  say  to  her  son  and  he  going  on 
to  be  a  priest. 

John  thought  it  very  strange  that  she  too  should  have 
observed  this  incident,  which  he  had  imagined  must 
have  been  hidden  from  all  eyes  save  his  own.  He  now 
wondered  how  many  more  must  have  seen  it  as  he  tried 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      115 

to  recall  the  sensations  with  which  it  had  filled  him.  .  .  . 
But  beyond  this  remarkable  endeavor  of  his  mind  his 
mother  was  again  speaking: 

"If  you  went  now,  you'd  be  in  time  for  half -past  eight 
Mass." 

He  did  not  fail  to  notice  the  immediate  change  which 
had  taken  place  in  her,  and  wondered  momentarily  what 
could  have  been  its  sudden  cause.  He  was  beginning  to 
notice  of  late  that  she  had  grown  more  and  more  sub- 
ject to  such  unaccountable  fits. 

In  his  desire  to  obey  her  he  was  still  strong,  but,  this 
morning,  as  he  walked  along  to  Garradrimna  he  was 
possessed  by  a  certain  feeling  of  annoyance  which 
seemed  to  strain  the  bond  that  stretched  between  them. 

In  the  chapel  he  knelt  beside  Charlie  Clarke,  like  the 
voteens  around  them,  with  a  lifeless  acquiescence  in  the 
ceremony.  He  was  here  not  because  his  heart  was  here, 
but  merely  because  his  mother  had  wished  it.  When  his 
lips  moved,  in  mechanical  mimicry  of  the  priest,  he  felt 
that  the  way  of  the  hypocrite  must  be  hard  and  lonely. 

When  he  came  out  upon  the  road  he  was  confused  to 
find  himself  face  to  face  with  Rebecca  Kerr.  It  seemed 
a  trick  of  coincidence  that  he  should  meet  her  now,  for  it 
had  never  happened  on  any  other  morning.  Then  he 
suddenly  remembered  how  his  mother  had  kept  him  late 
from  ''eight  o'clock"  by  her  talk  of  the  concert,  and  it 
was  now  Miss  Kerr's  school-going  time.  .  .  .  She  smiled 
and  spoke  to  him. 

She  looked  handsome  as  she  moved  there  along  the 
road  from  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick  to  the 
Girls'  School  of  Tullahanogue.  She  was  in  harmony 
with  the  beauty  of  the  morning.  There  had  been  a  dull 


116     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

pain  upon  his  mind  since  he  had  last  seen  her,  but  al- 
ready it  was  gone. 

Although  the  concert  might  appear  as  the  immediate 
subject  to  which  their  minds  would  turn,  this  was  not 
so.  They  began  to  talk  of  places  and  things  away  from 
Garradrimna. 

She  spun  for  his  amusement  many  little  yarns  of  the 
nuns  who  conducted  the  college  where  she  had  been 
trained.  He  told  her  stories  of  the  priests  who  taught  in 
the  English  college  where  he  was  being  educated  for  the 
priesthood.  They  enlarged  upon  the  peculiarities  of 
monastic  establishments. 

"And  you're  going  to  be  a  priest!"  she  said,  looking 
up  into  his  face  suddenly  with  dancing  eyes. 

Such  a  question  had  never  before  been  put  to  him  in 
exactly  this  way. 

"I  am  ...  At  least,  I  think  so.  ...  Oh,  yes!"  he 
faltered. 

She  laughed  in  a  ringing,  musical  way  that  seemed  to 
hold  just  the  faintest  trace  of  mockery  in  its  tones,  but 
it  seemed,  next  instant,  to  be  only  by  way  of  preface  to 
another  conventual  tale  which  she  proceeded  to  tell. 

Through  the  period  of  this  story  they  did  not  notice 
that  they  were  being  stared  at  by  those  they  were  meet- 
ing upon  the  road.  ...  As  she  chatted  and  laughed, 
his  eyes  would  be  straying,  in  spite  of  him,  to  that  soft 
place  upon  her  neck  from  which  her  hair  sprang  upward. 

It  was  with  painful  abruptness  that  she  said :  ' '  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Brennan !"  and  went  into  the  old,  barrack- 
like  school. 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHEN  John  regained  the  house  he  saw  that  his 
father's  boots  had  disappeared  from  their  ac- 
customed place  beside  the  fire.  No  doubt  he  had  gone 
away  in  them  to  Garradrimna.  He  had  not  met  him 
on  the  road,  but  there  was  a  short  way  across  the  fields 
and  through  the  woods,  a  backward  approach  to  three 
of  the  seven  publichouses  along  which  Ned  Brennan, 
some  rusty  plumber's  tool  in  his  hand  and  his  head 
downcast,  might  be  seen  passing  on  any  day. 

He  did  not  go  straight  into  the  sewing-room,  for  the 
door  was  closed  and  he  could  hear  the  low  murmur  of 
talk  within.  It  must  be  some  customer  come  to  his 
mother,  he  thought,  or  else  some  one  who  had  called  in 
off  the  road  to  talk  about  the  concert.  Immediately  he 
realized  that  he  was  wrong  in  both  surmises,  for  it  was 
the  voice  of  Marse  Prendergast  raised  in  one  of  its  re- 
nowned outbursts  of  supplication. 

"Now  I  suppose  it's  what  you  think  that  you're  the 
quare,  clever  woman,  Nan  Byrne,  with  your  refusing  me 
continually  of  me  little  needs;  but  you'd  never  know 
what  I'd  be  telling  on  you  some  day,  and  mebbe  to  your 
grand  son  John." 

"Sssh — sssh — sure  I'll  get  it  for  you  when  he  goes 
from  the  kitchen." 

This  last  was  in  a  low  tone  and  spoken  by  his  mother. 

"Mebbe  it's  what  you're  ashamed  to  let  him  see  you 
117 


118     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

giving  to  me.  That's  a  grand  thing  now,  and  I  know- 
ing what  I  know!" 

"Can't  you  be  easy  now  and  maybe  'tis  a  whole  shill- 
ing I'll  be  giving  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

This  was  altogether  too  generous  of  his  mother.  It 
gave  scope  to  Marse  Prendergast  to  exercise  her  tyranny. 
Her  threat  was  part  of  the  begging  convention  she  had 
framed  for  herself,  and  so  it  did  not  move  him  towards 
speculation  or  suspicion.  His  mind  drifted  on  to  the 
enjoyment  of  other  thoughts,  the  girl  he  had  just  walked 
with  down  the  valley,  the  remembered  freshness  of  the 
morning  road.  He  came  out  to  the  door.  The  little 
kitchen  garden  stretched  away  from  his  feet.  An 
abandoned  spade  stood  up  lonely  and  erect  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  cabbage-plot.  Around  it  were  a  few  square 
feet  of  freshly-turned  earth.  It  was  the  solitary  trace 
of  his  existence  that  his  father  had  left  behind.  ...  As 
the  mind  of  John  Brennan  came  to  dwell  upon  the  lonely 
spectacle  of  the  spade  the  need  for  physical  exertion 
grew  upon  him. 

He  went  out  into  the  little  garden  and  lifted  the  rude 
implement  of  cultivation  in  his  hand.  He  had  not 
driven  it  many  times  into  the  soft  clay  of  the  cabbage- 
bed  when  a  touch  of  peace  seemed  to  fall  upon  him. 
The  heavy  burden  that  had  occupied  his  mind  was  fall- 
ing into  the  little  trench  that  was  being  made  by  the 
spade. 

He  had  become  so  interested  in  his  task  that  he  had 
not  heard  his  mother  go  upstairs  nor  seen  Marse  Pren- 
dergast emerge  from  the  house  some  moments  later. 

The  old  shuiler  called  out  to  him  in  her  high,  shrill 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     119 

"That's  right,  John!  That's  right!  'Tis  glad  my- 
self is  to  see  you  doing  something  useful  at  last.  Dig- 
ging the  cabbage-plot,  me  sweet  gosoon,  and  your  father 
in  Garradrimna  be  this  time  with  his  pint  in  his  hand ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  her 
cruelty  was  stirred  to  give  the  sore  cut  by  reviving  the 
old  dread. 

"That's  the  lad!  That's  the  lad!  But  mind  you 
don't  dig  too  far,  for  you  could  never  tell  what  you'd 
find.  And  indeed  it  would  be  the  quare  find  you  might 
say!" 

He  laughed  as  she  said  this,  for  he  remembered  that, 
as  a  child  she  had  entertained  him  with  the  strangest 
stories  of  leprecauns  and  their  crocks  of  gold,  which  were 
hidden  in  every  field.  The  old  woman  passed  out  on 
the  road,  and  his  mother  came  over  to  him  with  a  pitiful 
look  of  sadness  in  her  eyes. 

"Now,  John,  I'm  surprised  at  you  to  have  a  spade  in 
your  hand  before  Marse  Prendergast  and  all.  That's 
your  father's  work  and  not  yours,  and  you  with  your 
grand  education." 

The  speech  struck  him  as  being  rather  painful  to  hear, 
and  he  felt  as  if  he  should  like  to  say:  "Well,  what  is 
good  enough  for  my  father  ought  to  be  good  enough 
for  me!"  But  this,  to  his  mother,  might  have  looked 
like  a  back-answer,  a  piece  of  impertinence,  so  he  merely 
stammered  in  confusion:  "Oh,  sure  I  was  only  exercis- 
ing and  amusing  myself.  When  this  little  bit  is  finished 
I'm  going  down  to  have  a  read  by  the  lake." 

"That's  right,  John!"  she  said  in  a  flat,  sad  voice, 
and  turned  back  to  her  endless  labor. 

He  stopped,  his  hands  folded  on  the  handle-end  of  the 


120     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

spade,  and  fell  into  a  condition  of  dulness  which  even 
the  slightest  labor  of  the  body  brings  to  those  unaccus- 
tomed to  it.  All  things  grew  so  still  of  a  sudden. 
There  seemed  to  come  a  perfect  lull  in  the  throbbing, 
nervous  realization  of  his  brain  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment. .  .  .  He  felt  himself  listening  for  the  hum  of  his 
mother's  machine,  but  it  was  another  sound  that  came 
to  him — the  desolating  sound  of  her  lonely  sobbing.  She 
was  crying  to  herself  there  now  in  the  sewing-room  and 
mourning  forever  as  if  for  some  lost  thing.  .  .  .  There 
were  her  regular  sobs,  heavy  with  an  eternal  sadness  as 
he  listened  to  them.  Into  such  acute  self-consciousness 
had  his  mood  now  moved  that  he  could  not  imagine  her 
crying  as  being  connected  with  anything  beyond  him- 
self. He  was  the  perpetual  cause  of  all  her  pain.  .  .  . 
If  only  she  would  allow  him,  for  short  spaces,  to  go  out 
of  her  mind  they  might  both  come  into  the  enjoyment 
of  a  certain  freedom,  but  sometimes  the  most  trivial 
incident  seemed  to  put  her  out  so.  This  morning  she 
had  been  in  such  heart  and  humor,  and  last  night  so 
interested  in  the  concert,  and  here  now  she  was  in  tears. 
It  could  not  have  been  the  visit  of  Marse  Prendergast 
or  her  talk,  for  there  was  nobody  so  foolish,  he  thought, 
as  to  take  any  notice  of  either.  It  must  have  been  the 
digging  and  the  fact  that  people  passing  the  road  might 
see  him.  Now  was  not  that  foolish  of  her,  for  did  not 
Father  O'Keeffe  himself  dig  in  his  own  garden  with  his 
own  two  blessed  hands.  .  .  .  ?  But  he  must  bend  in 
obedience  to  her  desire,  and  go  walking  like  a  leisured 
gentleman  through  the  valley.  He  was  looking  forward 
to  this  with  dread,  for,  inevitably,  it  must  throw  him 
back  upon  his  own  thoughts. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     121 

As  he  came  down  past  the  school  he  could  hear  a  dull 
drone  from  among  the  trees.  The  school  had  not  yet 
settled  down  to  the  business  of  the  day,  and  the  scholars 
were  busy  with  the  preparation  of  their  lessons.  John 
stopped  by  the  low  wall,  which  separated  its  poor  play- 
ground from  the  road,  to  gaze  across  at  the  hive  of  in- 
tellect. Curious  that  his  mother  should  now  possess  a 
high  contempt  for  this  rude  academy  where  he  had  been 
introduced  to  learning.  But  he  had  not  yet  parted  com- 
pany with  his  boyhood.  He  was  remembering  the  com- 
panions of  his  schooldays  and  how  this  morning  prep- 
aration had  been  such  a  torture.  Still  moving  about 
the  yard  before  his  formal  entrance  to  the  school,  was 
Master  Donnellan.  As  John  Brennan  saw  him  now  he 
appeared  as  one  misunderstood  by  the  people  of  the  val- 
ley, and  yet  as  one  in  whom  the  lamp  of  the  intellect 
was  set  bright  and  high.  But  beyond  this  immediate 
thought  of  him  he  appeared  as  a  man  with  overthrown 
ambitions  and  shattered  dreams,  whose  occasional  out- 
bursts of  temper  for  these  reasons  had  often  the  effect 
of  putting  him  at  enmity  with  the  parents  of  the  chil- 
dren. 

Master  Donnellan  was  a  very  slave  of  the  ferrule. 
He  had  spent  his  brains  in  vain  attempts  to  impart  some 
knowledge  to  successive  generations  of  dunces  of  the 
fields.  It  had  been  his  ambition  to  be  the  means  of 
producing  some  great  man  whose  achievements  in  the 
world  might  be  his  monument  of  pride.  But  no  pupil 
of  his  in  the  valley  school  had  ever  arisen  as  a  great  man. 
Many  a  time,  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  when  the 
day  would  find  it  hard  to  disappear  from  Ireland,  he 
would  come  quietly  to  the  old  school  with  a  step  of 


128     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

reverence,  and  going  into  the  moldy  closet,  where  all 
the  old  roll-books  and  register-books  were  kept,  take 
them  down  one  by  one  and  go  searching  through  the 
lists  of  names.  His  mind  would  be  filled  with  the  ring- 
ing achievements  of  men  who  had  become  notable  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  Not  a  trace  of  any  of  those  famous  names 
could  he  find  here,  however  far  he  might  search  in  all 
the  musty  books  until  the  day  had  faded.  .  .  .  Then  he 
would  rely  upon  his  memory  in  a  further  aspect  of  his 
search.  He  had  not  even  produced  a  local  great  man. 
In  his  time  no  priests  had  come  out  of  the  valley.  There 
was  a  strange  thing  now — no  priests,  and  it  was  a  thing 
that  was  always  said  by  angry  mothers  and  fathers  when 
they  called  at  the  valley  school  to  attack  him  for  his 
conduct  towards  their  children — "And  you  never  to 
have  made  a  priest  or  a  ha'porth !"  It  was  not  the  un- 
reasonableness of  their  words  that  annoyed  him,  but 
rather  the  sense  of  impotence  with  which  they  filled 
him.  ...  If  only  it  would  happen  that  he  could  say 
he  had  produced  one  famous  man.  A  priest  would  be 
sufficiently  fine  to  justify  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  valley. 
It  was  so  strange  that,  although  he  had  seen  many 
young  men  move  towards  high  attainment,  some  fatality 
had  always  happened  to  avert  his  poor  triumph.  He 
thought  of  young  Brennan  as  his  present  hope  and 
pride. 

John  went  on  towards  the  lake.  When  he  came  to 
the  water 's  edge  he  was  filled  with  a  sense  of  peace.  He 
sat  down  beneath  one  of  the  fir  trees  and,  in  the  idle- 
ness of  his  mood,  began  to  pick  up  some  of  the  old  dried 
fir-cones  which  were  fallen  beneath.  They  appeared  to 
him  as  things  peculiarly  bereft  of  any  sap  or  life.  He 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     123 

gathered  until  he  had  a  handful  and  then  cast  them  from 
him  one  by  one  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  It  seemed 
a  surprising  thing  that  the  small  eddies  which  the  light 
splashes  of  them  made  rolled  distantly  to  the  shores 
of  the  little  lake.  He  began  to  wonder  would  his  life 
come  to  be  like  that — a  small  thing  to  be  flung  by  the 
Hand  of  Fate  and  creating  its  little  ripple  to  eddy  to 
the  far  shores  of  Time. 

"Me  sound  man,  John!" 

It  was  the  voice  of  Shamesy  Golliher  coming  from  be- 
hind a  screen  of  reeds  where  he  had  been  fishing. 

"  'Tis  a  warm  day/'  he  said,  pushing  back  his  faded 
straw  hat  from  his  brow,  "Glory  be  to  the  Son  of  God!" 

This  was  a  pious  exclamation,  but  the  manner  of  its 
intonation  seemed  to  make  it  comical  for  John  Brennan 
laughed  and  Shamesy  Golliher  laughed. 

"Now  isn't  them  the  clever,  infernal  little  gets  of 
fishes?  The  divil  a  one  can  I  catch  only  the  size  of 
pinkeens,  and  I  wanting  to  go  to  Garradrimna  with  a 
hell  of  a  thirst!" 

"And  is  that  all  you  have  troubling  you?"  said  John. 

"Is  that  all?  Begad  if  it  isn't  enough  after  last 
night.  If  the  priests  knew  all  the  drink  that  bees  drunk 
at  concerts  in  aid  of  Temperance  Halls  you  wouldn  't  see 
a  building  of  that  kind  in  the  country. 

"Now  down  with  me  last  night  to  the  concert  with 
me  two  lovely  half-pints  of  malt.  Well,  to  make  a  long 
story  short,  I  finished  one  of  them  before  I  went  in.  I 
wasn't  long  inside,  and  I  think  it  was  while  Harry  Hoi- 
ton  was  singing,  when  who  should  give  me  a  nudge  only 
Hubert  Manning:  'Are  ye  coming  out,  Shamesy?'  says 
he.  He  had  two  bottles  of  stout  and  a  naggin,  and 


124    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

we  had  them  finished  before  Harry  Holton  had  done  his 
first  song.  I  was  striving  for  to  crush  back  into  me 
place  when  who  should  I  knock  against  only  Farrell 
McGuinness?  He  had  a  lot  of  bottles  in  his  pocket. 
He  seemed  to  have  about  four  dozen  of  stout  on  his 
person,  according  to  the  noise  he  made:  'For  the  honor 
of  Jases,'  says  he,  'will  you  not  spill  me  porter?'  But 
then  when  he  saw  it  was  me  he  had  in  it :  '  Come  to  hell 
oura  this,'  says  he,  'into  the  night  air.'  I  was  so  glad 
to  see  that  he  hadn't  broken  his  bottles,  I  introduced 
th 'other  half  pint.  Sure  he  nearly  swallowed  it,  bottle 
and  all.  Then  we  fell  to  at  the  porter,  and  such  a 
bloody  piece  of  drinking  never  was  seen.  And  it  wasn't 
that  we  had  plenty  of  drink  of  our  own,  but  strange 
people  were  coming  running  through  the  wood  putting 
half-pints  and  naggins  into  our  mouths  just  as  if  we 
were  little  sucking  childer.  I  fell  a  corpse  under  a  tree 
about  eleven.  I  don't  know  how  long  I  was  insensible, 
but  when  I  came  to  I  had  a  quare  feeling  that  I  was  in 
Hell  or  some  place.  I  wasn't  able  to  move  an  inch,  I 
was  that  stiff  and  sick.  .  .  .  Somewhere  near  me  I  could 
hear  two  whispering  and  hugging  in  the  darkness. 
They  were  as  close  as  ever  they  could  be.  I  couldn't 
stir  to  get  a  better  look  for  fear  they'd  hear  me.  But 
there  was  quare  goings  on  I  can  tell  you,  things  I 
wouldn't  like  to  mention  or  describe.  Whisper,  I'm 
near  sure  it  was  Ulick  Shannon  and  the  schoolmistress, 

Miss  Kerr,  or  whatever  the  hell  her  name  is ." 

Shamesy's  sickening  realism  was  brought  to  an 
abrupt  end  by  the  ducking  of  his  cork,  which  had  been 
floating  upon  the  surface  of  the  water.  There  was  a 
short  moment  of  joyous  excitement  and  then  a  dying 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     125 

perch  lay  on  the  grass  by  the  side  of  John  Brennan. 

He  viewed  with  sorrow  that  clean,  shining  thing  wrig- 
gling there  beneath  the  high  heavens.  Its  end  had 
come  through  the  same  pitiful  certainty  as  that  of  the 
rabbits  which  had  aforetime  contributed  to  the  thirst 
of  Shamesy,  who  presently  said  with  delight: 

"Now  I  have  the  correct  number.  I  can  sell  them  for 
sixpence  in  'The  World's  End/  and  you'd  never  know 
the  amount  of  good  drink  that  sixpence  might  bring." 

He  prepared  to  take  his  departure,  but  ere  he  went 
across  the  hill  he  turned  to  John  and  said : 

''That  was  the  fine  walk  you  were  doing  with  Ulick 
Shannon's  girl  this  morning?  She  was  in  great  form 
after  last  night. ' ' 

He  said  it  with  such  a  leer  of  suggestion  as  cast  John, 
still  blushing,  back  into  his  gloom. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

LAST  night  and  this  morning,  what  Shamesy  Golliher 
had  told  him  of  last  night  and  said  of  the  walk 
with  Rebecca  this  morning — all  this  was  now  recurring 
clearly  to  his  mind,  although  Shamesy  had  long  since 
disappeared  across  the  sweep  of  the  hill  on  his  way  to 
Garradrimna. 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  so  recently  reminded  her  son  of  his 
coming  exaltation  that  the  suggestion  was  now  com- 
pelling him  beyond  the  battle  of  his  thought  to  picture 
himself  as  a  priest  ordained.  Yet  an  immense  gulf  of 
difference  still  separated  him  from  the  condition  of 
Father  O'Keeffe,  for  instance.  His  thought  had  been 
further  helped  to  move  this  way  by  the  sudden  appear- 
ance of  Father  O'Keeffe  riding  along  The  Road  of  the 
Dead. 

John  did  not  see  the  man  as  he  really  was.  Yet  it 
was  the  full  reality  of  him  that  was  exercising  a  sub- 
conscious influence  upon  his  mind  and  helping,  with 
other  things,  to  turn  his  heart  away  from  the  priest- 
hood. 

Father  O'Keeffe  came  directly  from  that  class  so  im- 
portant in  Ireland — the  division  of  the  farmer  class 
which  has  come  to  be  known  as  "The  Grabbers."  The 
word  "grabber"  had  not  been  invented  to  describe  a 
new  class,  but  rather  to  denote  the  remarkable  character 

126 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     127 

of  a  class  already  in  existence.  That  was  their  inner- 
most nature,  these  fanners,  to  be  close-fisted  and  to 
guard  with  an  almost  savage  tenacity  those  possessions 
to  which  they  had  already  attained.  It  was  notable 
also  that  they  were  not  too  careful  or  particular  as  to 
the  means  they  employed  to  come  into  possession.  This 
was  the  full  answer  to  the  question  why  so  many  of 
them  put  a  son  on  for  the  Church.  It  was  a  double  rea- 
son, to  afford  a  means  of  acquiring  still  further  and  to 
be  as  an  atonement  in  the  sight  of  Heaven  for  the  means 
they  had  used  in  acquiring  thus  far.  This  at  once  ap- 
peared amazingly  true  if  one  applied  it  to  the  case  of 
Father  O'Keeffe,  who  could  on  occasion  put  on  such  a 
look  of  remoteness  from  this  world,  that  it  was  difficult 
to  set  about  analyzing  him  by  any  earthly  standard. 
Yet,  among  all  the  pedigrees  she  had  read  for  him,  as  a 
notable  example  in  Mrs.  Brennan's  crowd  of  examples, 
had  continually  appeared  and  re-appeared  this  family 
of  O'Keeffe.  His  mother  had  always  endeavored  to  fix 
firmly  in  his  mind  the  wonder  of  their  uprise.  It  was 
through  the  gates  of  the  Church  that  the  0  'Keeffes  had 
gone  to  their  enjoyment.  No  doubt  they  had  denied 
themselves  to  educate  this  Louis  O'Keeffe  who  had  be- 
come P.P.  of  Garradrimna,  but  their  return  had  been 
more  than  satisfying.  There  was  now  no  relation  of  his 
to  the  most  distant  degree  of  blood  who  did  not  possess 
great  comfort  and  security  in  the  land. 

At  bottom  Father  O'Keeffe  was  still  a  man  of  the 
clay  and  loved  the  rich  grass  and  the  fine  cattle  it  pro- 
duced. He  had  cattle  in  every  quarter  of  the  parish. 
Men  bought  them  and  saw  to  their  fattening  and  sold 
them  for  him,  even  going  so  far  as  adding  the  money 


128    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  his  account  in  the  bank.  He  had  most  discreetly  used 
a  seeming  unworldliness  to  screen  his  advance  upon 
the  ramparts  of  Mammon.  Citing  the  examples  of 
Scripture,  he  consorted  with  notable,  though  suddenly 
converted,  sinners,  and,  when  some  critic  from  among 
the  common  people  was  moved  to  speak  his  mind  as 
one  of  the  converted  sinners  performed  a  particularly 
unscrupulous  stroke  of  business,  he  was  immediately 
silenced  by  the  unassailable  spectacle  of  his  parish  priest 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  the  man  whose  actions  he 
was  daring  to  question.  The  combination  was  of  mu- 
tual benefit;  the  gombeen  man,  the  auctioneer  and  the 
publican  were  enabled  to  proceed  with  their  swindle  of 
the  poor  by  maintaining  his  boon  companionship. 

Thus,  while  publicly  preaching  the  admonishing  text 
of  the  camel  and  the  rich  man  and  the  needle's  eye, 
Father  O'Keeffe  was  privately  engaged  in  putting  him- 
self in  such  a  condition  that  the  task  of  negotiating  the 
needle's  eye  might  be  as  difficult  to  him  as  the  camel. 
He  went  daily  for  a  walk,  reading  his  office,  and  re- 
turned anxiously  scanning  stock  exchange  quotations 
and  letters  from  cattle  salesmen  in  Dublin.  But  in 
spite  of  this  he  was  a  sportsman,  and  thought  nothing 
of  risking  a  ten-pound  note  upon  a  horse  or  a  night's 
card-play. 

When  he  first  came  to  the  parish  his  inclinations  were 
quickly  determined.  In  the  whirl  of  other  interests 
cards  had  fallen  into  disuse  in  Garradrimna.  They  had 
come  to  be  considered  old-fashioned,  but  now  suddenly 
they  became  "all  the  rage."  Old  card-tables  were  re- 
discovered and  renewed,  and  it  was  said  that  Tommy 
Williams  was  compelled  to  order  several  gross  of  play- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     129 

ing  cars — for,  what  the  "elite"  of  the  parish  did,  the 
"commonality"  must  needs  follow  and  do.  Thus  was 
a  public  advantage  of  doubtful  benefit  created;  for  la- 
boring men  were  known  to  lose  their  week 's  wages  to  the 
distress  of  their  wives  and  children.  ...  At  the  "gor- 
geous card-plays"  never  an  eyelid  was  lifted  when 
Father  O'Keeffe  "renayged." 

These  took  place  in  the  houses  of  shopkeepers  and 
strong  farmers,  and  were  cultivated  to  a  point  of  ex- 
cessive brilliance.  Ancient  antagonists  of  the  tongue 
met  upon  this  new  field,  and  strategic  attempts  were 
made  to  snatch  Father  O'Keeffe  as  a  prize  of  battle. 
Thus  was  an  extravagant  sense  of  his  value  at  once 
created  and,  as  in  all  such  cases,  the  worst  qualities  of 
the  man  came  to  be  developed.  His  natural  snobbish- 
ness, for  one  thing,  which  led  him  to  associate  a  great 
deal  with  the  gilded  youth  of  Garradrimna — officials  of 
the  Union  and  people  of  that  kind  who  had  got  their  po- 
sitions through  every  effort  of  bribery  and  corruption. 
At  athletic  sports  or  coursing  matches  you  would  see 
him  among  a  group  of  them,  while  they  smoked  stink- 
ing "Egyptian"  cigarettes  up  into  his  face. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  thought  that  Father  O'Keeffe 
neglected  the  ladies.  In  evenings  in  the  village  he 
might  be  seen  standing  outside  the  worn  drapery  coun- 
ters back-biting  between  grins  and  giggles  with  the 
women  of  the  shops.  This  curious  way  of  spending  the 
time  had  once  led  an  irreverent  American  to  describe 
him  as  "the  flirtatious  shop-boy  of  Garradrimna." 

His  interest  in  the  female  sex  often  led  him  upon  ex- 
peditions beyond  the  village.  Many  a  time  he  might  be 
seen  riding  his  old,  fat,  white  horse,  so  strangely  named, 


130    THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"King  Billy,"  down  some  rutted  boreen  on  the  way  to 
a  farmer's  house  where  there  were  big  daughters  with 
weighty  fortunes.  Those  were  match-making  expedi- 
tions when  he  had  come  to  tell  them  of  his  brother  Robert 
O'Keeffe  and  his  broad  acres.  .  .  .  While  "King 
Billy"  was  comforting  himself  with  a  plentiful  feed  of 
oats,  he  would  be  sitting  in  the  musty  parlor  with  the 
girl  and  her  mother,  taking  wine  and  smoking  cigars, 
which  were  kept  in  every  house  since  it  had  come  to  be 
known  that  Father  O'Keeffe  was  fond  of  them.  He 
generally  smoked  a  good  few  at  a  sitting,  and  those  he 
did  not  consume  he  carried  away  in  his  pocket  for  fu- 
ture use  in  his  den  at  the  Presbytery. 

"Isn't  Father  O'Keeffe,  God  bless  him,  the  walking 
terror  for  cigars?"  was  all  the  comment  ever  made 
upon  this  extraordinary  habit. 

Kobert  O'Keeffe,  in  the  intentions  of  his  brother,  was 
a  much-married  man,  for  there  was  not  a  house  in  the 
parish  holding  a  marriageable  girl  into  which  Father 
O'Keeffe  had  not  gone  to  get  him  a  match.  He  had  en- 
larged upon  the  excellence  of  his  brother,  upon  his 
manners  and  ways  and  the  breadth  of  his  fields. 

"He's  the  grand,  fine  man,  is  Robert,"  he  would  say, 
by  way  of  giving  a  final  touch  to  the  picture. 

Upon  those  whose  social  standing  was  not  a  thing  of 
any  great  certitude  this  had  always  a  marked  effect  to- 
wards their  own  advantage  and  that  of  Father  O  'Keeffe. 
It  gave  them  a  certain  pride  in  their  own  worth  to  have 
a  priest  calling  attentively  at  the  house  and  offering  his 
brother  in  marriage.  It  would  be  a  gorgeous  thing  to 
be  married  to  a  priest's  brother,  and  have  your  brother- 
in-law  with  power  in  his  hands  to  help  you  out  of  many 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     131 

a  difficulty.  He  never  inquired  after  the  cattle  their 
fathers  were  grazing  free  of  charge  for  him  until  he 
would  be  leaving  the  house. 

John  Brennan  followed  the  black  figure  upon  the 
white  horse  down  all  The  Road  of  the  Dead  until  Father 
O'Keeffe  had  disappeared  among  the  trees  which  sur- 
rounded the  Schools  of  Tullahanogue,  where  he  was 
making  a  call. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

JOHN  now  saw  Ulick  Shannon  coming  towards  him 
across  the  Hill  of  Annus.  It  was  strange  that  he 
should  be  appearing  now  whose  presence  had  just  been 
created  by  the  Rabelaisian  recital  of  Shamesy  Golliher. 
As  he  came  along  boldly  his  eyes  roamed  cheerfully  over 
the  blue  expanse  of  water  and  seemed  to  catch  some- 
thing there  which  moved  him  to  joyous  whistling.  John 
Brennan  felt  a  certain  amount  of  reserve  spring  up  be- 
tween them  as  they  shook  hands.  .  .  .  For  a  moment 
that  seemed  to  lengthen  out  interminably  the  two  young 
men  were  silent.  The  lake  was  without  a  ripple  in  the 
intense  calm  of  the  summer  day.  .  .  .  Suddenly  it  re- 
flected the  movement  of  them  walking  away,  arm  in 
arm,  towards  the  village. 

It  was  high  noontide  when  they  reached  Garra- 
drimna.  The  Angelus  was  ringing.  Men  had  turned 
them  from  their  various  occupations  to  bend  down  for 
a  space  in  prayer.  The  drunkards  had  put  away  the 
pints  from  their  mouths  in  reverence.  The  seven  sleek 
publicans  were  coming  to  their  doors  with  their  hats  in 
their  hands,  beating  their  breasts  in  a  frenzy  of  zeal  and 
genuflecting.  Yet,  upon  the  appearance  of  the  students, 
a  different  excitement  leaped  up  to  animate  them.  They 
began  to  hurry  their  prayers,  the  words  becoming 
jumbled  pell  mell  in  their  mouths  as  they  cleared  a 
132 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     133 

way  for  their  tongues  to  say  to  one  another  the  thing 
they  wanted  to  say  of  the  two  young  men. 

By  their  God,  there  was  John  Brennan  and  Ulick 
Shannon  coming  into  Garradrimna  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  To  drink,  they  at  once  supposed.  Their  tongues 
had  been  finding  fine  exercise  upon  Ulick  Shannon  for 
a  considerable  time,  but  it  was  certainly  a  comfort  to 
have  the  same  to  say  of  John  Brennan.  A  clerical 
student  coming  up  the  street  with  a  Dublin  scamp. 
That  was  a  grand  how-d  'ye-clo !  But  sure  they  sup- 
posed, by  their  God  again,  that  it  was  only  what  she  de- 
served (they  were  referring  to  Mrs.  Brennan). 

Her  mention  at  once  brought  recollection  of  her  story, 
and  it  came  to  be  discussed  there  in  the  heat  of  the  day 
until  the  lonely  woman,  who  was  still  crying  probably 
as  she  sat  working  by  her  machine  in  the  little  house  in 
the  valley,  became  as  a  corpse  while  the  vultures  of 
Garradrimna  circled  round  it  flapping  great  wings  in 
glee. 

The  students  strode  on,  reciting  the  Angelus  beneath 
their  breaths  with  a  devotion  that  did  not  presently  give 
place  to  any  worldly  anxiety.  They  were  doing  many 
things  now,  as  if  they  formed  a  new  personality  in 
which  the  will  and  the  inclination  of  each  were  merged. 
They  turned  into  McDermott's,  and  it  seemed  their  col- 
lective intention  from  the  direction  they  took  upon  en- 
tering the  shop  to  take  refuge  in  the  retirement  of  the 
particular  portion  known  as  Connellan's  office.  It  was 
the  place  where  Mick  Connellan,  the  local  auctioneer, 
transacted  business  on  Fridays.  On  all  other  days  it 
was  considered  the  more  select  and  secluded  portion  of 
this  publichouse.  But  when  they  entered  it  was  oc- 


134     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

cupied.  Padna  Padna,  the  ancient  drunkard,  was  sit- 
ting by  the  empty  grate  poking  the  few  drawn  corks  in 
it  as  if  they  were  coals.  He  was  speaking  to  himself 
in  mournful  jeremiads,  and  after  the  fashion  of  one 
upon  whom  a  great  sorrow  has  fallen  down. 

"Now  what  the  hell  does  he  want  with  his  mission, 
and  it  too  good  we  are  ?  A  mission,  indeed,  for  to  make 
us  pay  him  money  every  night,  and  the  cosht  of  every- 
thing, drink  and  everything.  He,  he,  he!  To  pay  the 
price  of  a  drink  every  night  to  hear  the  missioners  de- 
nounce drink.  Now  that's  the  quarest  thing  ever  any 
one  heard.  To  go  pay  the  price  of  a  drink  for  hearing 
a  man  that  doesn't  even  know  the  taste  of  it  say  that 
drink  is  not  good  for  the  human  soul.  Begad  Father 
0  'Keeffe  is  the  funny  man ! ' ' 

After  this  fashion  did  Padna  Padna  run  on  in 
soliloquy.  He  had  seen  many  a  mission  come  to  bring, 
in  the  words  of  the  good  missioners,  "a  superabundance 
of  grace  to  the  parish,"  and  seen  it  go  without  bringing 
any  appreciable  addition  of  grace  to  him  or  any  change 
in  his  way  of  life.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  his  tradition 
had  set  Padna  Padna  down  as  a  Christian,  and  would 
not  allow  him  to  live  his  life  upon  Pagan  lines  and  in 
peace.  The  struggle  which  continually  held  occupation 
of  his  mind  was  one  between  Christian  principles  and 
Pagan  inclinations.  He  now  began  whispering  to  him- 
self—"The  Book  of  God!  The  Book  of  God!  A  fel- 
low's name  bees  written  in  the  Book  of  God!"  ...  So 
absorbed  was  he  in  his  immense  meditation  that  he  had 
hardly  noticed  the  entry  of  the  students.  But  as  he 
became  aware  of  their  presence  he  stumbled  to  his  feet 
and  gripping  John  Brennan  by  the  arm  whispered 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     135 

tensely:  "Isn't  that  a  fact,  young  fellow,  that  one's 
name  bees  down  there  always,  and  what  one  does,  and 
that  it's  never  blotted  out?" 

"It  is  thus  we  are  told,"  said  'John,  speaking  dog- 
matically and  as  if  he  were  repeating  a  line  out  of  the 
Bible. 

Padna  Padna,  as  he  heard  these  words  and  recognized 
the  voice  of  their  speaker,  put  on  what  was  really  his 
most  gruesome  expression.  He  stripped  his  shrunken 
gums  in  a  ghastly  little  smile,  and  a  queer  "Tee-Hee!" 
issued  from  his  furrowed  throat.  .  .  .  Momentarily  his 
concern  for  Eternity  was  forgotten  in  a  more  immediate 
urgency  of  this  world.  He  gripped  John  still  more 
tightly  and  in  a  higher  whisper  said:  "Are  ye  able  to 
stand  ? ' ' 

It  was  a  strange  anti-climax  and  at  once  betrayed  his 
sudden  descent  in  the  character  of  his  meditation,  from 
thinking  of  what  the  Angel  had  written  of  him  to  his 
immortal  longing  for  what  had  determined  the  character 
of  that  record  regarding  immortality. 

"Yes,  I'll  stand,"  said  Ulick,  breaking  in  upon  John 
Brennan's  reply  to  Padna  Padna  and  pushing  the  bell. 

Mr.  McDermott  himself,  half  drunk  and  smelling  of 
bad  whiskey,  came  in  and  soon  the  drinks  were  before 
them.  New  life  seemed  to  come  pushing  into  the  an- 
cient man  as  he  took  his  "half  one."  He  looked  up  in 
blind  thankfulness  into  their  faces,  his  eyes  running 
water  and  his  mouth  dribbling  like  that  of  a  young  child. 
.  .  .  His  inclinations  were  again  becoming  rapidly 
Pagan.  .  .  .  From  smiling  dumbly  he  began  to  screech 
with  laughter,  and  moved  from  the  room  slowly  tapping 
his  way  with  his  short  stick.  ...  He  was  going  forth  to 


136     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

fresh  adventures.  Spurred  on  by  this  slight  addition 
of  drink  he  would  be  encouraged  to  enter  the  other  six 
publichouses  of  Garradrinma,  and  no  man  could  tell 
upon  what  luck  he  might  happen  to  fall.  So  fortunate 
might  his  half-dozen  expeditions  prove  that  he  would 
probably  return  to  the  house  of  the  good  woman  who 
was  his  guardian,  led  by  Shamesy  Golliher,  or  some  other 
one  he  would  strike  up  with  in  the  last  dark  pub,  as  if 
he  were  a  toddling  infant  babbling  foolish  nonsense 
about  all  the  gay  delights  which  had  been  his  of  old. 
The  mad  drives  from  distant  villages  upon  his  outside 
car,  his  passengers  in  the  same  condition  as  himself — a 
state  of  the  wildest  abandon,  and  dwelling  exultingly 
in  that  moment  wherein  they  might  make  fitting  models 
for  a  picture  by  Jack  B.  Yeats. 

Ulick  and  John  were  now  alone.  The  day  outside  was 
hot  and  still  upon  the  dusty  street,  but  this  office  of 
Connellan's  was  a  cool  place  like  some  old  cellar  full  of 
forgotten  summers  half  asleep  in  wine.  .  .  .  They  were 
entering  still  deeper  into  the  mood  of  one  another.  .  .  . 
Ulick  had  closed  the  door  when  Padna  Padna  had  passed 
through,  tapping  blindly  as  he  moved  towards  the  far 
places  of  the  village.  He  would  seem  to  have  gone  for 
no  other  purpose  than  to  publish  broadcast  the  presence 
of  Ulick  Shannon  and  John  Brennan  together  in  Mc- 
Dermott's,  and  they  drinking.  For  now  the  door  of 
Connellan  's  office  was  being  opened  and  closed  every  few 
minutes.  People  were  calling  upon  the  pretense  of  look- 
ing for  other  people,  and  going  away  leaving  the  door 
open  wide  behind  them  so  that  some  others  might  come 
also  and  see  for  themselves  the  wonderful  thing  that  was 
happening.  .  .  .  Padna  Padna  was  having  such  a  time 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     137 

as  compared  favorably  with  the  high  times  of  old.  A 
"half-one"  of  malt  from  every  man  he  brought  to  see 
the  sight  was  by  no  means  a  small  reward.  And  so  he 
was  coming  and  going  past  the  door  like  a  sentry  on 
guard  of  some  great  treasure  which  increased  in  value 
from  moment  to  moment.  He  was  blowing  upon  his 
fingers  and  tapping  his  lips  and  giggling  and  screeching 
with  merriment  down  in  his  shivering  frame. 

And  most  wonderful  of  all,  the  two  young  men  who 
were  creating  all  this  excitement  were  quite  unconscious 
of  it.  ...  They  were  talking  a  great  deal,  but  each, 
as  it  were,  from  behind  the  barricade  of  his  personality, 
for  each  was  now  beginning  for  the  first  time  to  notice 
a  peculiar  thing.  They  were  discovering  that  their  per- 
sonalities were  complementary.  John  lacked  the  gift, 
which  was  Ulick 's,  of  stating  things  brilliantly  out  of 
life  and  experience  and  the  views  of  those  modern  au- 
thors whom  he  admired.  On  the  other  hand,  he  seemed 
to  possess  a  deeper  sense  of  the  relative  realities  of  cer- 
tain things,  a  faculty  which  sprang  out  of  his  ecclesias- 
tical training  and  which  held  no  meaning  for  Ulick,  who 
spoke  mockingly  of  such  things.  Ulick  skimmed  lightly 
over  the  surface  of  life  in  discussing  it;  John  was  in- 
clined to  plow  deeply. 

Suddenly  a  desire  fell  upon  John  to  hear  Ulick  dis- 
cuss again  those  matters  he  had  talked  of  at  the  "North 
Leinster  Arms"  in  Ballinamult.  It  was  very  curious 
that  this  should  be  the  nature  of  his  thoughts  now,  this 
inclination  towards  things  which  from  him  should  al- 
ways have  remained  far  distant  and  unknown.  .  .  .  But 
it  may  have  been  that  some  subtle  impulse  had  stirred 
in  him,  and  that  he  now  wished  to  see  whether  the  out- 


138     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

look  of  Ulick  had  changed  in  any  way  through  his  ru- 
mored friendship  with  Rebecca  Kerr.  Would  it  be  a 
cleaner  thing  and  purified  through  power  of  that  girl? 
He  fondly  fancied  that  no  thought  at  all  could  be  soiled 
within  the  splendid  precinct  of  her  presence. 

Josie  Guinan,  the  new  barmaid  of  McDermott  's,  came 
in  to  attend  them  with  other  and  other  drinks.  Her 
bosom  was  attractive  and  ample,  although  her  hair  was 
still  down  upon  her  back  in  rich  brown  plaits.  .  .  .  She 
dallied  languorously  within  the  presence  of  the  two 
young  men.  .  .  .  Ulick  began  to  tell  some  of  the  stories 
he  had  told  to  Mary  Essie,  and  she  stood  even  as  brazenly 
enjoying  them  with  her  back  to  the  door  closed  behind 
her.  Then  the  two  came  together  and  whispered  some- 
thing, and  a  vulgar  giggle  sprang  up  between  them. 

And  to  think  that  this  was  the  man  to  whom  Rebecca 
Kerr  might  be  giving  the  love  of  her  heart.  ...  If  John 
had  seen  as  much  of  life  as  the  other  he  would  have 
known  that  Ulick  was  the  very  kind  of  man  who,  at  all 
times,  has  most  strongly  appealed  to  women.  Yet  it  was 
in  this  moment  and  in  this  place  that  he  fell  in  love  with 
Rebecca.  ...  He  became  possessed  of  an  infinite  will- 
ingness to  serve  and  protect  her,  and  it  was  upon  the 
strength  of  his  desire  that  he  arose. 

Through  all  this  secret,  noble  passage,  Ulick  remained 
laughing  as  at  some  great  joke.  He,  too,  was  coming 
into  possession  of  a  new  joy,  for  he  was  beginning  to 
glimpse  the  conflagration  of  another 's  soul.  Out  of  sheer 
devilment,  and  in  conspiracy  with  Josie  Guinan,  he  had 
caused  John  Brennan's  drink,  the  small,  mild  measure 
of  port  wine,  to  be  dosed  with  flaming  whiskey.  Even 
the  wine  in  the  frequency  of  its  repetition  had  already 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     139 

been  getting  the  better  of  him.  They  had  been  hours 
sitting  here,  and  outside  the  day  was  fading. 

John  began  to  stutter  now  in  the  impotence  of  degra- 
dation which  was  upon  him.  His  thoughts  were  all 
burning  into  one  blazing  thought.  The  small  room 
seemed  suddenly  to  cramp  and  confine  his  spirit  as  if  it 
were  a  prison  cell.  .  .  .  And  Ulick  was  still  smiling  that 
queer  smile  of  his  with  his  thick  red  lips  and  sunken  eyes. 

He  sprang  towards  the  door  and,  turning  the  handle, 
rushed  out  into  the  air.  .  .  .  Soon  he  was  fleeing  as  if 
from  some  Unknown  Force,  staggering  between  the  rows 
of  the  elms  which  stretched  all  along  the  road  into  the 
valley.  It  had  rained  a  shower  and  the  strong,  young 
leaves  held  each  its  burden  of  pearly  drops.  A  light 
wind  now  stirred  them  and  like  an  aspergillus  they  flung 
a  blessing  down  upon  him  as  he  passed.  And  ever  did 
he  mutter  her  name  to  himself  as  he  stumbled  on : 

"Rebecca  Kerr,  Rebecca  Kerr,  I  love  you,  Rebecca, 
I  love  you  surely !  Oh,  my  dear  Rebecca ! ' ' 

She  was  moving  before  him,  with  her  hair  all  shining 
through  the  twilight. 

' '  Oh,  dear  Rebecca !     I  love  you !    Oh,  my  dear ! ' ' 

He  turned  The  Road  of  the  Dead  and  down  by  the 
lake,  where  he  lay  in  the  quiet  spot  from  which  Ulick 
Shannon  had  taken  him  away  to  Garradrimna.  There 
he  remained  until  far  on  in  the  evening,  when  his 
mother,  concerned  for  his  welfare,  came  to  look  for  him. 
She  found  him  sleeping  by  the  lake. 

She  had  no  notion  of  how  he  had  passed  the  evening. 
Her  imagination  was,  after  all,  only  a  very  small  thing 
and  worked  rigorously  within  the  romantic  confines  of 
the  holy  stories  which  were  her  continual  reading. 


140     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

When  she  had  awakened  him  she  asked  a  characteristic 
question : 

"And  I  suppose,  John,  you're  after  seeing  visions  and 
things  have  appeared  to  you  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  mother,  I  have  seen  a  vision,  I  think,"  he  said, 
as  he  opened  his  eyes  and  blinked  stupidly  at  the  lake. 
He  was  still  midway  between  two  conditions,  but  he  was 
not  noticeable  to  her,  who  could  not  have  imagined  the 
like. 

These  were  the  only  words  he  spoke  to  her  before  he 
went  to  bed. 

Back  in  McDermott  's  a  great  crowd  thronged  the  pub- 
lic bar.  Every  man  seemed  to  be  in  high  glee  and  a 
hum  of  jubilation  hung  low  between  them.  A  momen- 
tous thing  had  happened,  and  it  was  of  this  great  event 
they  were  talking.  John  Brennan  had  left  the  house 
and  he  reeling.  Men  from  the  valley  foregathered  in 
one  group  and,  as  each  new-comer  arrived,  the  news  was 
re-broken.  It  was  about  the  best  thing  that  had  ever 
happened.  The  sudden  enrichment  of  any  of  their  num- 
ber could  not  have  been  half  so  welcome  in  its  impor- 
tance. 

Padna  Padna  and  Shamesy  Golliher  were  standing  in 
one  corner  taking  sup  for  sup. 

"Damn  it,  but  it  was  one  of  the  greatest  days  ever  I 
seen  in  Garradrimna  since  the  ould  times.  It  was  a  pity 
you  missed  of  it,"  said  Padna  Padna.  "If  you  were  to 
see  him!" 

"Sure  I'm  after  seeing  him,  don't  I  tell  ye,  lying  a 
corpse  be  the  lake." 

"A  corpse  be  the  lake.  He,  he,  he!  Boys-a-day! 
Boys-a-day!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MRS.  BRENNAN,  although  she  pondered  it  deeply, 
had  made  no  advance  towards  full  realization  of 
her  son's  condition  by  the  lakeside.  Yet  John  felt 
strangely  diffident  about  appearing  before  her  next  morn- 
ing. It  seemed  to  him  that  another  attack  had  been  made 
upon  the  bond  between  them.  But  when  at  last  he  came 
into  the  sewing-room  she  was  smiling,  although  there 
was  a  sinking  feeling  around  his  heart  as  he  looked  upon 
her.  Yet  this  would  pass,  he  hoped,  when  they  began 
to  talk. 

The  children  were  going  the  road  to  school,  and  it 
was  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Brennan  that  she  must  needs 
be  making  comment  upon  what  was  passing  before  her 
eyes. 

"God  help  the  poor,  little  girls,"  she  cried,  "sure  'tis 
the  grand  example  they're  being  set  by  that  new  one, 
Miss  Kerr,  with  her  quare  dresses  and  her  light  ways. 
They  say  she  was  out  half  the  night  after  the  concert 
with  Ulick  Shannon,  and  that  Mrs.  McGoldrick  and  the 
Sergeant  are  in  terror, of  their  lives  for  fear  of  robbers 
or  the  likes,  seeing  that  they  have  to  leave  the  door  on 
the  latch  for  her  to  come  in  at  any  time  she  pleases  from 
her  night-walking.  And  the  lad  she  bees  with  that's 
after  knocking  about  Dublin  and  couldn't  be  good  any- 
way. But  sure,  be  the  same  token,  there's  a  touch  of 
Dublin  about  her  too.  How  well  she  wouldn't  give  me 

141 


142     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  making  of  her  new  dress?  But  I  suppose  I'm  old- 
fashioned  in  my  cut.  Old-fashioned,  how  are  ye;  and 
I  buying  Weldon's  Ladies'  Journal  every  week?  But 
of  course  she  had  to  go  to  Dublin  to  be  in  the  tip  of 
the  fashion  and  see  what  they  wear  in  Grafton  Street 
in  the  lamplight.  She  had  to  get  an  outfit  of  immodest 
fol-the-dols  to  be  a  disgrace  in  the  chapel  every  Sun- 
day, and  give  room  to  the  inissioners  when  they  come 
to  say  things  that  may  have  an  injurious  effect  upon 
poor  dressmakers  like  myself  who  strive  to  earn  a  living 
as  decently  as  we  can." 

This  harangue  was  almost  unnoticed  by  John  Brennan. 
It  was  a  failing  of  his  mother  to  be  always  speaking  thus 
in  terms  of  her  trade.  He  knew  that  if  Miss  Kerr  had 
come  here  with  her  new  dress,  fine  words  and  encomiums 
would  now  be  spoken  of  her  in  this  room.  But  it  was 
his  mother  who  was  speaking — and  he  was  thinking  of 
the  girl  who  had  filled  his  vision. 

And  his  mother  was  still  talking: 

"That  Ulick  Shannon,  I  hate  him.  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  let  yourself  be  seen  along  with  him.  It  is  not 
good  for  you,  avic  mackree.  Of  course  I  know  the  kind 
of  talk  you  do  be  having,  son.  About  books  and  classes 
and  the  tricks  and  pranks  of  you  at  college.  Ah,  dear, 
I  know;  but  I'd  rather  to  God  it  was  any  other  one  in 
the  whole  world.  I'm  fearing  in  me  heart  that  there's 
a  black,  black  side  to  him.  It's  well  known  that  he 
bees  always  drinking  in  Garradrimua,  and  now  see  how 
he's  after  striking  up  with  the  schoolmistress  one. 
Maybe  'tis  what  he'd  try  to  change  you  sometime,  for 
as  sure  as  you're  there  I'm  afraid  and  afraid.  And 
to  think  after  all  I  have  prayed  for  you  through  all  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     143 

years,  upon  me  two  bare  knees  in  the  lonely  nights,  if 
an  affliction  should  come." 

"What  affliction,  mother?    What  is  it?" 

He  came  nearer,  and  gazing  deep  into  her  face  saw 
that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes.  Her  eyes  were  shin- 
ing like  deep  wells. 

"Ah,  this,  son.  If  it  should  ever  come  that  you  did 
not  think  well  to  do  me  wish,  after  all  I  have  done — " 

She  checked  herself  of  a  sudden,  and  it  was  some 
moments  before  John  replied.  He,  too,  was  thinking  of 
Ulick  Shannon.  There  was  a  side  to  his  friend  that  he 
did  not  like.  Yesterday  he  had  not  liked  him.  There 
were  moments  when  he  had  hated  him.  But  that  mood 
and  the  reason  for  it  seemed  to  have  passed  from  him 
during-  the  night.  It  was  a  far  thing  now,  and  Ulick 
Shannon  was  as  he  had  been  to  John,  who  could  not 
think  ill  of  him.  Yet  it  was  curious  that  his  mother 
should  be  hinting  at  things  which,  if  he  allowed  his  mind 
to  dwell  upon  them  at  all,  must  bring  back  his  feelings 
of  yesterday.  .  .  .  But  he  felt  that  he  must  speak  well 
of  his  friend. 

"Ah,  sure  there  is  nothing,  mother.  You  are  only 
fancying  queer  things.  At  college  I  have  to  meet  hun- 
dreds of  fellows.  He's  not  a  bad  chap,  and  I  like  speak- 
ing to  him.  It  is  lonely  here  without  such  intercourse. 
He  realizes  keenly  how  people  are  always  talking  of  him, 
how  the  smallest  action  of  his  is  construed  and  con- 
structed in  a  hundred  different  ways,  until  he's  driven 
to  do  wild  things  out  of  very  defiance  to  show  what  he 
thinks  of  the  mean  people  of  the  valley  and  their  opinion 
of  him — " 

"They're  not  much,  I  know — " 


144     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"But  at  heart,  I  think,  he's  somehow  like  myself,  and 
I  can 't  help  liking  him. ' ' 

"All  the  same  he  shouldn't  be  going  with  a  girl  and, 
especially,  a  little  chit  of  a  schoolmistress  like  this  one, 
for  I  can 't  stand  her. ' ' 

Why  did  she  continue  to  hammer  so  upon  the  pulse  of 
his  thought?  .  .  .  With  bowed  head  he  began  to  drift 
out  of  the  room.  Why  had  she  driven  him  to  think  now 
of  Rebecca  Kerr?  ...  He  was  already  in  the  sunlight. 

To-day  he  would  not  go  towards  the  lake,  but  up 
through  the  high  green  fields  of  Scarden.  He  was  tak- 
ing The  Imitation  of  Christ  with  him,  and,  under  the 
shade  of  some  noble  tree,  it  was  his  intention  to  turn 
his  thoughts  to  God  and  away  from  the  things  of  life. 

It  seemed  grand  to  him,  with  a  grandeur  that  had 
more  than  a  touch  of  the  color  of  Heaven,  to  be  ascend- 
ing cool  slopes  through  the  green,  soft  grass  and  to  be 
looking  down  upon  the  valley  at  its  daily  labor.  The 
potatoes  and  turnips  still  required  attention.  He  saw 
men  move  patiently  behind  their  horses  over  the  broken 
fields  of  red  earth  beneath  the  fine,  clear  clay,  and 
thought  that  here  surely  was  the  true  vocation  of  him 
who  would  incline  himself  unto  God.  .  .  .  But  how  un- 
true was  this  fancy  when  one  came  to  consider  the  real 
personality  of  these  tillers  of  the  soil?  There  was  not 
one  of  whom  Mrs.  Brennan  could  not  tell  an  ugly  story. 
Not  one  who  did  not  consider  it  his  duty  to  say  un- 
charitable things  of  Ulick  Shannon  and  Rebecca  Kerr. 
Not  one  who  would  not  have  danced  with  gladness  if  a 
great  misfortune  had  befallen  John  Brennan,  and  made 
a  holiday  in  Gfarradrimna  if  anything  terrible  had  hap- 
pened to  any  one  within  the  circle  of  their  acquaintance. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     145 

John  Brennan  's  attention  was  now  attracted  by  a  man 
who  moved  with  an  air  of  proprietorship  among  a  field 
of  sheep.  He  was  a  tall  man  in  black,  moving  darkly 
among  the  white  crowd  of  the  sheep,  counting  them 
leisurely  and  allowing  his  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  pag- 
eant of  their  perfect  whiteness.  He  seemed  to  be  reck- 
oning their  value  as  the  pure  yield  of  his  pastures.  Here 
was  another  aspect  of  the  fields.  .  .  .  The  man  in  black 
was  coming  towards  him  with  long  strides. 

It  took  John  some  moments  to  realize  that  he  had 
strayed  into  the  farm  of  the  Shannons  and  that  this  was 
Myles  Shannon  who  was  coming  over  to  meet  him.  .  .  . 
He  was  a  fine,  clean  man  seen  here  amid  the  rich  sur- 
roundings of  his  own  fields.  But  he  had  advanced  far 
into  bachelorhood,  and  the  russet  was  beginning  to  go 
out  of  his  cheeks.  It  seemed  a  pity  of  the  world  that  he 
had  not  married,  for  just  there,  hidden  behind  the  bil- 
lowy trees,  was  the  fine  house  to  which  he  might  have 
brought  home  a  wife  and  reared  up  a  family  to  love  and 
honor  him  in  his  days.  But  his  romance  had  been  shat- 
tered by  a  piece  of  villainy  which  had  leaped  out  from 
the  darkness  of  the  valley.  And  now  he  was  living  here 
alone.  But  he  was  serenely  independent,  exhibiting  a 
fine  contempt,  as  well  he  might,  for  the  mean  strugglers 
around  him.  He  took  his  pleasures  here  by  himself  in 
this  quiet  house  among  the  trees.  Had  he  been  asked  to 
name  them,  he  could  have  told  you  in  three  words — 
books  and  drink.  Not  that  they  entered  into  his  life  to 
any  great  extent,  for  he  was  a  wise  man  even  in  his  in- 
dulgence. .  .  .  But  who  was  there  to  see  him  or  know 
since  he  did  not  choose  to  publish  himself  in  Garra- 
drimna?  And  there  was  many  a  time  when  he  worked 


146     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

himself  into  a  great  frenzy  while  brooding  over  the  story 
of  his  dead  brother  Henry,  and  his  own  story,  and  Nan 
Byrne.  .  .  .  Even  now  he  was  thinking  darkly  of  Nan 
Byrne  as  he  came  forward  to  meet  her  son  across  his  own 
field. 

"Good-day,  Mr.  Brennan!"  he  said  affably.  He  had 
no  personal  grudge  against  this  young  man,  but  his 
scheme  of  revenge  inevitably  included  him,  for  it  was 
through  John  Brennan,  her  son,  that  Nan  Byrne  now 
hoped  to  aspire,  and  it  was  him  she  hoped  to  embody  as 
a  monument  of  her  triumph  over  destructive  circum- 
stances before  the  people  of  the  valley. 

John  went  forward  and  shook  the  hand  of  Mr.  Shan- 
non with  deference. 

A  fine  cut  of  a  man,  surely,  this  Myles  Shannon,  stand- 
ing here  where  he  might  be  clearly  viewed.  He  ap- 
peared as  a  survival  from  the  latter  part  of  the  Victorian 
era.  He  was  still  mutton-chopped  and  mustachioed 
after  the  fashion  of  those  days.  He  wore  a  long-tailed 
black  coat  like  a  morning-coat.  His  waistcoat  was  of 
the  same  material.  Across  the  expanse  of  it  extended  a 
wide  gold  chain,  from  which  dangled  a  bunch  of  heavy 
seals.  These  shook  and  jingled  with  his  every  move- 
ment. His  trousers  were  of  a  dark  gray  material,  with 
stripes,  which  seemed  to  add  to  the  height  and  erectness 
of  his  figure.  His  tall,  stiff  collar  corrected  the  thought- 
ful droop  of  his  head,  and  about  it  was  tastefully  fixed 
a  wide  black  tie  of  shiny  silk  which  reached  down  under- 
neath his  low-cut  waistcoat.  His  person  was  sur- 
mounted by  an  uncomfortable-looking  bowler  hat  with 
a  very  hard,  curly  brim. 

When  he  smiled,  as  just  now,  his  teeth  showed  in  even, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     147 

fine  rows  and  exhibited  some  of  the  cruelty  of  one  who 
has  allowed  his  mind  to  dwell  darkly  upon  a  passionate 
purpose.  But  the  ring  of  his  laugh  was  hearty  enough 
and  had  the  immediate  effect  of  dispelling  suspicions  of 
any  sinister  purpose. 

He  said  he  was  glad  to  see  how  his  casual  suggestion, 
made  upon  the  day  they  had  journeyed  down  from  Dub- 
lin together,  had  borne  fruit,  that  Mr.  Brennan  and  his 
nephew,  Ulick,  had  so  quickly  become  friends. 

John  thanked  him,  and  began  to  speak  in  terms  of 
praise  about  Ulick  Shannon. 

Mr.  Shannon  again  bared  his  even,  white  teeth  in  a 
smile  as  he  listened.  ...  A  strong  friendship,  with  its 
consequent  community  of  inclinations,  had  already  been 
established.  And  he  knew  his  nephew. 

"He's  a  clever  chap,  I'll  admit,  but  he's  so  damned 
erratic.  He  seems  bent  upon  crushing  the  experience  of 
a  lifetime  into  a  few  years.  Why  I'm  a  man,  at  the 
ripened,  mellow  period  of  life,  and  it's  a  fact  that  he 
could  teach  me  things  about  Dublin  and  all  that." 

John  Brennan  was  uncertain  in  what  way  he  should 
confirm  this,  but  at  last  he  managed  to  stammer  out : 

' '  Ulick  is  very  clever ! ' ' 

"He's  very  fond  of  Garradrimna,  and  I  think  he's 
very  fond  of  the  girls." 

"It's  so  dull  around  here  compared  with  Dublin." 

John  appeared  a  fool  by  the  side  of  this  man  of  the 
world,  who  was  searching  him  with  a  look  as  he  spoke 
again : 

"It's  all  right  for  a  young  fellow  to  gain  his  experi- 
ence as  early  as  he  can,  but  he's  a  bit  too  fond  of  his 
pleasure.  He 's  going  a  bit  too  far. ' ' 


148     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

John  put  on  a  strained  look  of  advocacy,  but  he  spoke 
no  word. 

"He's  not  a  doctor  yet,  and  even  then  his  living  would 
not  be  assured ;  and  do  ye  know  what  he  had  the  cheek  to 
come  telling  me  the  other  night — 

"  'I've  got  infernally  fond  of  that  little  girl,'  he  says. 

"  'What  girl?'  I  asked  in  amazement. 

"  'Why,  that  schoolmistress — Rebecca  Kerr.  I'm 
"gone"  about  her.  I'm  in  love  with  her.  She's  not  at 
all  like  any  of  the  others. '  ' ' 

Myles  Shannon,  with  his  keen  eyes,  saw  the  sudden 
light  of  surprise  that  leaped  into  the  eyes  of  John  Bren- 
nan.  The  passion  of  his  hatred  and  the  joy  of  his 
cruelty  were  stirred,  and  he  went  on  to  develop  the  plot 
of  the  story  he  had  invented. 

"And  what  for,"  said  I  to  him,  "are  you  thinking  of 
any  girl  in  that  way.  I,  as  your  guardian,  am  able  to 
tell  you  that  you  are  not  in  a  position  to  marry.  Surely 
you're  not  going  to  ruin  this  girl,  or  allow  her  to  ruin 
you.  Besides  she  is  only  a  strolling  schoolmistress  from 
some  unknown  part  of  Donegal,  and  you  are  one  of  the 
Shannon  family.  'But  I'm  "gone"  about  her,'  was 
what  Ulick  said.  How  was  I  to  argue  against  such  a 
silly  statement?" 

The  color  was  mounting  ever  higher  on  John  Bren- 
nan's  cheeks. 

But  the  relentless  man  went  on  playing  with  him. 

"Of  course  I  have  not  seen  her,  but,  by  all  accounts, 
she's  a  pretty  girl  and  possesses  the  usual  share  of  allure- 
ments. Is  not  that  so?" 

' '  She 's  very  nice. ' ' 

"And,  do  you  know  what?    It  has  come  to  me  up 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     149 

here,  although  I  may  seem  to  be  a  hermit  among  the 
fields  who  takes  no  interest  in  the  world,  that  you  have 
been  seen  walking  down  the  valley  road  together.  D'ye 
remember  yesterday  morning,  eh?" 

John  was  blushing  still,  and  a  kind  of  sickly  smile 
made  his  fine  face  look  queer.  All  kinds  of  expressions 
were  trying  to  form  themselves  upon  his  tongue,  yet  not 
one  of  them  could  he  manage  to  articulate. 

"Not  that  I  blame  a  young  fellow,  even  one  intended 
for  the  Church,  if  he  should  have  a  few  inclinations  that 
way.  But  I  can  see  that  you  are  the  good  friend  of  my 
nephew,  and  indeed  it  would  be  a  pity  if  anything  came 
to  spoil  that  friendship,  least  of  all  a  bit  of  a  girl.  .  .  . 
And  both  of  you  being  the  promising  young  men  you 
are.  ...  It  would  be  terrible  if  anything  like  that 
should  come  to  pass." 

Even  to  this  John  could  frame  no  reply.  But  the 
ear  of  Mr.  Shannon  did  not  desire  it,  for  his  eye  had 
seen  all  that  he  wished  to  know.  He  beheld  John  Bren- 
nan  shivering  as  within  the  cold  and  dismal  shadows  of 
fatality.  .  .  .  They  spoke  little  more  until  they  shook 
hands  again,  and  parted  amid  the  dappled  grass. 

To  Myles  Shannon  the  interview  had  been  an  extraor- 
dinary success.  .  .  .  Yet,  quite  suddenly,  he  found  him- 
self beginning  to  think  of  the  position  of  Rebecca  Kerr. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

OUTSIDE  the  poor  round  of  diversions  afforded  by 
the  valley  and  her  meetings  with  Ulick  Shannon, 
the  days  passed  uneventfully  for  Rebecca  Kerr.  It  was 
a  dreary  kind  of  life,  wherein  she  was  concerned  to  avoid 
as  far  as  possible  the  fits  of  depression  which  sprang 
out  of  the  quality  of  her  lodgings  at  Sergeant  McGold- 
rick's. 

She  snatched  a  hasty  breakfast  early  in  the  mornings, 
scarcely  ever  making  anything  like  a  meal.  When  she 
did  it  was  always  followed  by  a  feeling  of  nausea  as  she 
went  on  The  Road  of  the  Dead  towards  the  valley  school. 
When  she  returned  after  her  day 's  hard  work  her  dinner 
would  be  half  cold  and  unappetizing  by  the  red  ashy  fire. 
Mrs.  McGoldrick  would  be  in  the  sittting-room,  where 
she  made  clothes  for  the  children,  the  sergeant  himself 
probably  digging  in  the  garden  before  the  door,  his  tunic 
open,  his  face  sweating,  and  the  dirty  clay  upon  his  big 
boots.  ...  He  was  always  certain  to  shout  out  some 
idiotic  salutation  as  she  passed  in.  Then  Mrs.  McGold- 
rick would  be  sure  to  follow  her  into  the  kitchen,  a  baby 
upon  her  left  arm  and  a  piece  of  soiled  sewing  in  her 
right  hand.  She  was  always  concerned  greatly  about 
the  number  at  school  on  any  particular  day,  and  how 
Mrs.  Wyse  was  and  Miss  McKeon,  and  how  the  average 
was  keeping  up,  and  if  it  did  not  keep  up  to  a  certain 
number  would  Mrs.  Wyse 's  salary  be  reduced,  and  what 
150 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     151 

was  the  average  required  for  Miss  McKeon  to  get  her 
salary  from  the  Board,  and  so  on. 

Sometimes  Rebecca  would  be  so  sick  at  heart  of  school 
affairs  and  of  this  mean,  prying  woman  that  no  word 
would  come  from  her,  and  Mrs.  McGoldrick  would  drift 
huffily  away,  her  face  a  perfect  study  in  disappointment. 
And  against  those  there  were  times  when  Rebecca,  with 
a  touch  of  good  humor,  would  tell  the  most  fantastical 
stories  of  inspectors  and  rules  and  averages  and  incre- 
ments and  pensions,  Mrs.  McGoldrick  breathless  between 
her  "Well,  wells!"  of  amazement.  .  .  .  Then  Rebecca 
would  have  a  rare  laugh  to  herself  as  she  pictured  her 
landlady  repeating  everything  to  the  sergeant,  who 
would  make  mental  comparisons  the  while  of  the  curi- 
ous correspondence  existing  between  those  pillars  of  law 
and  learning,  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary,  and  the 
National  Teachers  of  Ireland. 

Next  day,  perhaps,  Mrs.  McGoldrick  would  enlarge 
upon  the  excellent  and  suitable  match  a  policeman  and 
a  teacher  make,  and  how  it  is  such  a  general  thing 
throughout  the  country.  She  always  concluded  a  dis- 
course of  this  nature  by  saying  a  thing  she  evidently 
wished  Rebecca  to  remember: 

"Let  me  tell  you  this,  now — a  policeman  is  the  very- 
best  match  that  any  girl  can  make!" 

And  big  louts  of  young  constables  would  be  jumping 
off  high  bicycles  and  calling  in  the  evenings.  .  .  .  This 
was  at  the  instigation  of  Mrs.  McGoldrick,  but  they  made 
no  impression  whatsoever  upon  Rebecca,  even  when  they 
arrived  in  mufti. 

In  school  the  ugly,  discolored  walls  which  had  been  so 
badly  distempered  by  Ned  Brennan;  the  monotony  of 


152     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  maps  and  desks;  the  constant  sameness  of  the  chil- 
dren's faces.  All  this  was  infinitely  wearying,  but  a 
more  subtle  and  powerful  torment  arose  beyond  the  hum 
of  the  children  learning  by  heart.  Rebecca  always  be- 
came aware  of  ft  through  a  burning  feeling  at  the  back 
of  her  neck.  Glancing  around  she  would  see  that,  al- 
though presumably  intent  upon  their  lessons,  many  eyes 
were  upon  her,  peering  furtively  from  behind  their 
books,  observing  her,  forming  opinions  of  her,  and  con- 
cocting stories  to  tell  their  parents  when  they  went 
home.  For  this  was  considered  an  essential  part  of  their 
training — the  proper  satisfaction  of  their  elders'  curi- 
osity. It  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  bigger  girls 
were  sent  to  school.  They  escaped  the  drudgery  of 
house  and  farm  because  they  were  able  to  return  with 
fresh  stories  from  the  school  every  evening.  Thus  were 
their  faculties  for  lying  and  invention  brought  into  play. 
They  feared  Mrs.  Wyse,  and  so  these  faculties  came  to 
be  trained  in  full  strength  upon  Rebecca.  As  she  moved 
about  the  school-room,  she  was  made  the  constant  object 
of  their  scrutiny.  They  would  stare  at  her  with  their 
mean,  impudent  eyes  above  the  top  edges  of  their  books. 
Then  they  would  withdraw  them  behind  the  opened 
pages  and  sneer  and  concoct.  And  it  was  thus  the  fore- 
noon would  pass  until  the  half-hour  allowed  for  recrea- 
tion, when  she  would  be  thrown  back  upon  the  company 
of  Mrs.  Wyse  and  Monica  McKeori.  No  great  pleasure 
was  in  store  for  her  here,  for  their  conversation  was 
always  sure  to  turn  upon  the  small  affairs  of  the  valley. 
There  was  something  so  ingenuous  about  the  relations 
of  Rebecca  and  Ulick  Shannon  that  neither  of  the  two 
women  had  the  courage  to  comment  upon  the  matter 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     153 

openly.  But  the  method  they  substituted  was  a  greater 
torture.  In  the  course  of  half  an  hour  they  would  sug- 
gest a  thousand  hateful  things. 

"I  heard  Ulick  Shannon  was  drunk  last  night,  and 
having  arguments  with  people  in  Garradrimna, "  Miss 
McKeon  would  say. 

Mrs.  Wyse  would  snatch  up  the  words  hastily.  "Is 
that  so?  Oh,  he's  going  to  the  bad.  He'll  never  pass 
his  exams.,  never!" 

"Isn't  it  funny  how  his  uncle  does  not  keep  better 
control  of  him.  Why  he  lets  him  do  what  he  likes?" 

"Control,  is  it?  It  doesn't  look  much  like  control 
indeed  to  see  him  encouraging  his  dead  brother's  son  to 
keep  the  company  he  favors.  Indeed  and  indeed  it 
gives  me  a  kind  of  a  turn  when  I  see  him  going  about 
with  Nan  Byrne 's  son,  young  John  Brennan,  who 's  going 
on  to  be  a  priest.  Well,  I  may  tell  you  that  it  is  '  going 
on'  he  is,  for  his  mother  as  sure  as  you're  there'll  never 
see  him  saying  his  first  Mass.  Now  I  suppose  the  poor 
rector  of  the  college  in  England  where  he  is  hasn't  a 
notion  of  his  antecedents.  The  cheek  of  it  indeed  !  But 
what  else  could  you  expect  from  the  likes  of  Nan  Byrne  ? 
Indeed  I  have  a  good  mind  to  let  the  ecclesiastical  au- 
thorities know  all,  and  if  nothing  turns  up  from  the 
Hand  of  God  to  right  the  matter,  sure  I'll  have  to  do  it 
myself.  Bedad  then  I  will ! ' ' 

"Mush a,  the  same  John  Brennan  doesn't  look  up  to 
much,  and  they  say  Ulick  Shannon  can  wind  him  around 
his  little  finger.  He'll  maybe  make  a  lad  of  him  before 
the  end  of  the  summer  holidays." 

"I  can't  understand  Myles  Shannon  letting  them  go 
about  together  so  openly  unless  he's  enjoying  the  whole 


154     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

thing  as  a  sneer.  But  it  would  be  more  to  his  credit 
indeed  to  have  found  other  material  for  his  fun  than  a 
blood  relation.  I'm  surprised  at  him  indeed,  and  he 
knowing  what  he  knows  about  Nan  Byrne  and  his 
brother  Henry." 

With  slight  variations  of  this  theme  falling  on  her 
ears  endlessly  Rebecca  was  compelled  to  endure  the  tor- 
ture of  this  half  hour  every  day.  No  matter  what  took 
place  in  the  valley  Monica  would  manage,  somehow,  to 
drag  the  name  of  Ulick  into  it.  If  it  merely  happened 
to  be  a  copy  of  the  Irish  Independent  they  were  looking 
at,  and  if  they  came  upon  some  extraordinary  piece  of 
news,  Monica  would  say: 

"Just  like  a  thing  that  Ulick  Shannon  would  do,  isn't 
it?" 

And  if  they  came  across  a  photo  in  the  magazine  sec- 
tion, Monica  would  say  again: 

"Now  wouldn't  you  imagine  that  gentleman  has  a 
look  of  Ulick  Shannon?" 

Rebecca  had  become  so  accustomed  to  all  this  that, 
overleaping  its  purpose,  it  ceased  to  have  any  consider- 
able effect  upon  her.  She  had  begun  to  care  too  much 
for  Ulick  to  show  her  affection  in  even  the  glimpse  of 
an  aspect  to  the  two  who  were  trying  to  discover  her 
for  the  satisfaction  of  their  spite.  It  was  thus  that  she 
remained  a  puzzle  to  her  colleagues,  and  Monica  in  par- 
ticular was  at  her  wit's  end  to  know  what  to  think.  At 
the  end  of  the  half  hour  she  was  always  in  a  deeper 
condition  of  defeat  than  before  it  began,  and  went  out  to 
the  Boys'  School  with  only  one  idea  warming  her  mind, 
that,  some  day,  she  might  have  the  great  laugh  at  Re- 
becca Kerr.  She  knew  that  it  is  not  possible  for  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      155 

woman  to  hide  her  feelings  forever,  even  though  she 
thought  this  one  cute  surely,  cute  beyond  all  the  sugges- 
tion of  her  innocent  exterior. 

Towards  the  end  of  each  day  Rebecca  was  thrown 
altogether  with  the  little  ones  who,  despite  all  the  en- 
treaties of  their  parents,  had  not  yet  come  very  far  away 
from  Heaven.  She  found  great  pleasure  in  their  com- 
pany and  in  their  innocent  stories.  For  example : 

"Miss  Kerr,  I  was  in  the  wood  last  night.  With  the 
big  bear  and  the  little  bear  in  the  wood.  I  went  into 
the  wood,  and  there  was  the  big  bear  walking  round 
and  round  the  wood  after  the  little  bear,  and  the  big 
bear  was  walking  round  and  round  the  wood." 

1 '  I  was  in  America  last  night,  and  I  saw  all  the  motor 
cars  ever  were,  and  people  riding  on  horses,  and  the 
highest,  whitest  buildings  ever  were,  and  people  going  to 
Mass — big  crowds  of  people  going  to  Mass. ' ' 

"My  mammy  brought  me  into  the  chapel  last  night, 
and  I  saw  God.  I  was  talking  to  God  and  He  was  ask- 
ing me  about  you.  I  said:  'Miss  Kerr  is  nice,  so  she 
is.'  I  said  this  to  God,  but  God  did  not  answer  me. 
I  asked  God  again  did  He  know  Miss  Kerr  who  teaches 
in  the  valley  school,  and  He  said  He  did,  and  I  said 
again:  'Miss  Kerr  is  nice,  so  she  is.'  But  He  went 
away  and  did  not  answer  me." 

Eebecca  would  enter  into  their  innocence  and  so  ex- 
perience the  happiest  hours  of  the  day. 

She  would  be  recalled  from  her  rapt  condition  by  the 
harsh  voice  of  Mrs.  Wyse  shouting  an  order  to  one  of 
the  little  girls  in  her  class,  this  being  a  hint  that  she 
herself  was  not  attending  to  her  business. 

But  soon  the  last  blessed  period  of  the  day  would 


156     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

come,  the  half  hour  devoted  to  religious  instruction. 
She  found  a  pleasure  in  this  task,  for  she  loved  to  hear 
the  little  children  at  their  prayers.  Sometimes  she 
would  ask  them  to  say  for  her  the  little  prayer  she  had 
taught  them : 

"0  God,  I  offer  up  this  prayer  for  the  poor  inten- 
tions of  Thy  servant  Rebecca  Kerr,  that  they  may  be 
fulfilled  unto  the  glory  of  Thy  Holy  Will.  And  that 
being  imperfect,  she  may  approach  to  Thy  Perfection 
through  the  Grace  and  Mercy  of  Jesus  Christ,  Our 
Lord." 

She  would  feel  a  certain  happiness  for  a  short  space 
after  this,  at  least  while  the  boisterous  business  of  taking 
leave  of  the  school  was  going  forward.  But  once  upon 
the  road  she  would  be  meeting  people  who  always  stared 
at  her  strangely,  and  passing  houses  with  squinting  win- 
dows. .  .  .  Then  would  come  a  heavy  sense  of  depres- 
sion, which  might  be  momentarily  dispelled  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  John  Brennan  either  coming  or  going  upon 
the  road.  For  a  while  she  had  considered  this  happen- 
ing coincidental,  but  of  late  it  had  been  borne  in  upon 
her  that  it  was  very  curious  he  should  appear  daily 
at  the  same  time.  .  .  .  The  silly  boy,  and  he  with  his 
grand  purpose  before  him.  .  .  .  She  would  smile  upon 
him  very  pleasantly,  and  fall  into  chat  sometimes,  but 
only  for  a  few  minutes.  She  looked  upon  herself  as 
being  ever  so  much  wiser.  And  she  thought  it  queer 
that  he  should  find  an  attraction  for  his  eyes  in  her  form 
as  it  moved  before  him  down  the  road.  She  always 
fancied  that  she  felt  low  and  mean  within  herself  while 
his  eyes  were  upon  her.  .  .  .  But  he  would  be  forever 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     157 

coming  out  of  his  mother's  cottage  to  meet  her  thus 
upon  the  road. 

After  dinner  in  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick  she 
would  betake  herself  to  her  little  room.  It  would  be 
untidy  after  the  hurry  in  which  she  had  left  it,  and 
now  she  would  set  about  putting  it  to  rights.  This 
would  occupy  her  half  an  hour  or  more.  Then  there 
would  be  a  few  letters  to  be  written,  to  her  people  away 
in  Donegal  and  to  some  of  the  companions  of  her  train- 
ing college  days.  She  kept  up  a  more  or  less  regular 
correspondence  with  about  half-a-dozen  of  these  girls. 
Her  letters  were  all  after  the  frivolous  style  of  their 
schooldays.  To  all  of  them  she  imparted  the  confidence 
that  she  had  met  "a  very  nice  fellow"  here  in  Garra- 
drimna,  but  that  the  place  was  so  lonely,  and  how  there 
was  "nothing  like  a  girl  friend." 

"Ah,  Anna,"  she  would  write,  or  "Lily"  or  "Lena," 
"There's  surely  nothing  after  all  like  a  girl  friend." 

After  tea  she  would  put  on  one  of  her  tidiest  hats,  and 
taking  the  letters  with  her  go  towards  the  Post  Office  of 
Garradrimna.  This  was  a  torture,  for  always  the  eyes 
of  the  old,  bespectacled  maid  were  upon  her,  looking 
into  her  mind,  as  she  stood  waiting  for  her  stamps  out- 
side the  ink-stained  counter.  And,  further,  she  always 
felt  that  the  doors  and  windows  of  the  village  were 
forever  filled  with  eyes  as  she  went  by  them.  Her  neck 
and  face  would  burn  until  she  took  the  road  that  led 
out  past  the  old  castle  of  the  De  Lacys.  There  was  a 
footpath  which  took  one  to  the  west  gate  of  the  demesne 
of  the  Moores.  The  Honorable  Reginald  Moore  was  the 
modern  lord  of  Garradrimna.  It  was  this  way  she  would 


158     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

go,  meeting  all  kinds  of  stragglers  from  the  other  end 
of  the  parish.  People  she  did  not  know  and  who  did 
not  know  her,  queer,  dark  men  coming  into  Garradrimna 
through  the  high  evening  in  quest  of  porter. 

"Fine  evening,  miss!"  they  would  say. 

Once  on  the  avenue  her  little  walk  became  a  golden 
journey  for  Ulick  always  met  her  when  she  came  this 
way.  It  was  their  custom  to  meet  here  or  on  The  Road 
of  the  Dead.  But  this  was  their  favorite  spot,  where 
the  avenue  led  far  into  the  quiet  woods.  A  scurrying- 
away  of  rabbits  through  the  undergrowth  would  an- 
nounce their  approach  to  one  another. 

Many  were  the  happy  talks  they  had  here,  of  books  and 
of  decent  life  beyond  the  boorishness  of  Garradrimna. 
She  had  given  him  The  Poems  of  Tennyson  in  exchange 
for  The  Daffodil  Fields.  Tastefully  illuminated  in  red 
ink  on  the  fly-leaf  he  had  found  her  "favorite  lines" 
from  Tennyson,  whom  she  considered  "exquisite": 

"Glitter  like  a  storm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver  braid." 

"Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straightened  forehead  of  the 
fool." 

"Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the  stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rushed  together  at  the  touching  of  the  lips." 

These  had  made  him  smile,  and  then  he  did  not  read 
any  more  of  Tennyson.  ...  He  was  fond  of  telling  her 
about  the  younger  Irish  poets  and  of  quoting  passages 
from  their  poems.  Now  it  would  be  a  line  or  so  from 
Colum  or  Stephens,  again  a  verse  from  Seumas  0  'Sulli- 
van or  Joseph  Campbell.  Continually  he  spoke  with 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     159 

enthusiasm  of  the  man  they  called  M.  .  .  .  She  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  such  men  could  be  living  in  Ire- 
land at  the  present  time. 

"And  would  you  see  them  about  Dublin?" 

"Yes,  you'd  see  them  often." 

"Eeal  poets?" 

"Real  poets  surely.  But  of  course  they  have  earthly 
interests  as  well.  One  is  a  farmer — " 

' '  A  farmer ! ! ! " 

This  she  found  it  hardest  of  all  to  believe,  for  the  word 
"farmer"  made  her  see  so  clearly  the  sullen  men  with 
the  dirty  beards  who  came  in  the  white  roads  every  eve- 
ning to  drink  in  Garradrimna.  There  was  no  poetry 
in  them. 

Often  they  would  remain  talking  after  this  fashion 
until  night  had  filled  up  all  the  open  spaces  of  the  woods. 
They  would  feel  so  far  away  from  life  amid  the  perfect 
stillness.  .  .  .  Their  peace  was  rudely  shattered  one 
night  by  a  sudden  breaking  away  from  them  through 
the  withered  branches.  .  .  .  Instantly  Ulick  knew  that 
this  was  some  loafer  sent  to  spy  on  them  from  Garra- 
drimna, and  Rebecca  clung  to  him  for  protection. 

Occasionally  through  the  summer  a  lonely  wailing 
had  been  heard  in  the  woods  of  Garradrimna  at  the  fall 
of  night.  Men  drinking  in  the  pubs  would  turn  to  one 
another  and  say : 

' '  The  Lord  save  us !  Is  that  the  Banshee  I  hear  cry- 
ing for  one  of  the  Moores?  She  cries  like  that  always 
when  one  of  them  dies,  they  being  a  noble  family. 
Maybe  the  Honorable  Reginald  is  after  getting  his  death 
at  last  in  some  whore-house  in  London." 


160     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Arrah  not  at  all,  man,  sure  that's  only  Anthony 
Shaughness  and  he  going  crying  through  the  woods  for 
drink,  the  poor  fellow!" 

But  the  sound  had  ceased  to  disturb  them  for  Anthony 
Shaughness  had  found  an  occupation  at  last.  This  eve- 
ning he  came  running  down  from  the  woods  into  Mc- 
Dermott's  bar,  the  loose  soles  of  his  boots  slapping 
against  the  cobbles  of  the  yard.  Josie  Guinan  went  up 
to  him  excitedly  when  he  entered. 

"Well?"  This  in  a  whisper  as  their  heads  came  close 
together  over  the  counter. 

'  '  Gimme  a  drink  ?    I  'm  choked  with  the  running,  so  I 


am 


" 


"Tell  me  did  you  see  them  first,  or  not  a  sup  you'll 
get.  Don't  be  so  smart  now,  Anthony  Shaughness!" 

"Oh,  I  saw  them  all  right.     Gimme  the  drink?" 

She  filled  the  drink,  making  it  overflow  the  glass  in 
her  hurry. 

"Well?" 

"Bedad  I  saw  them  all  right.  Heard  every  word 
they  were  saying,  so  I  did,  and  everything!  It  was  the 
devil's  father  to  find  them,  so  it  was,  they  were  that 
well  hid  in  the  woods.  .  .  .  Gimme  another  sup,  Josie?" 

"Now,  Anthony?" 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  know  all  I  have  to  tell  ye  !" 

Again  she  overflowed  the  glass  in  her  mounting  ex- 
citement. 

"Well?" 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  summer  was  beginning  to  wane,  August  having 
sped  to  its  end.  The  schools  had  given  vacation, 
and  Rebecca  Kerr  had  gone  away  from  the  valley  to 
Donegal.  Ulick  Shannon  had  returned  to  Dublin. 
This  was  the  uneventful  season  in  the  valley.  Mrs. 
Brennan,  finding  little  to  talk  about,  had  grown  quiet 
in  herself.  Ned  had  taken  his  departure  to  Ballinainult, 
where  he  was  engaged  in  putting  some  lead  upon  the 
roof  of  the  police-barracks.  He  was  drinking  to  his 
heart's  content,  she  knew,  and  would  come  home  to  her 
without  a  penny  saved  against  his  long  spell  of  idle- 
ness or  the  coming  rigors  of  the  winter.  But  she  was 
thankful  for  the  present  that  he  had  removed  himself 
from  the  presence  of  his  son.  It  was  not  good  for  such 
a  son  to  be  compelled  to  look  upon  such  a  father.  She 
had  prayed  for  this  blessing  and  lo !  it  had  come.  And 
it  extended  further.  Ulick  Shannon  too  was  gone  from 
the  valley,  and  so  she  was  no  longer  annoyed  by  seeing 
him  in  company  with  her  son.  Their  friendship  had 
progressed  through  the  mouths  of  July  and  August,  and 
she  was  aware  that  they  had  been  seen  together  many 
times  in  Garradrimna.  She  did  not  know  the  full 
truth  but,  as  on  the  first  occasion,  the  lake  could  tell. 
Rebecca  Kerr  was  gone,  and  so  there  was  no  need  to 
speak  of  this  strange  girl  for  whom  some  wild  feeling 
had  enkindled  a  flame  of  hatred  within  her.  Thus  was 
161 


162     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

she  left  in  loneliness  and  peace  to  dwell  upon  the  won- 
der of  her  son.  He  seemed  more  real  to  her  during 
these  quiet  days,  nearer  perhaps,  than  he  had  ever  been 
since  she  had  first  begun  to  dream  her  great  dream. 

Of  late  he  had  taken  to  his  room  upstairs,  where  he 
did  a  little  study  daily.  "So  that  it  won't  be  altogether 
too  strange  when  I  go  back  again  to  college,"  he  told 
her  on  more  than  one  occasion  when  she  besought  him 
not  to  be  blinding  his  eyes  while  there  was  yet  leisure  to 
rest  them.  There  were  times  during  the  long  quiet  day 
in  the  house  when  her  flood  of  love  for  him  would  so  well 
up  within  her  that  she  would  call  him  down  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  she  might  have  the  great  pleasure  of 
allowing  her  eyes  to  rest  upon  him  for  a  short  space  only. 
She  would  speak  no  word  at  all,  so  fearful  would  she  be 
of  disturbing  the  holy  peace  which  fell  between  them. 
In  the  last  week  of  his  present  stay  in  the  valley  this 
happened  so  often  that  it  became  a  little  wearying  to 
John,  who  had  begun  to  experience  a  certain  feeling  of 
independence  in  his  own  mind.  It  pained  him  greatly 
now  that  his  mother  should  love  him  so.  ...  And  there 
were  many  times  when  he  longed  to  be  back  in  his  Eng- 
lish college,  with  his  books  and  friends,  near  opportuni- 
ties to  escape  from  the  influences  which  had  conspired  to 
change  him. 

One  morning,  after  his  mother  had  gazed  upon  him  in 
this  way,  he  came  out  of  the  house  and  leaned  over  the 
little  wicket  gate  to  take  a  look  at  the  day.  It  was  ap- 
proaching Farrell  McGuirmess's  time  to  be  along  with 
the  post,  and  John  expected  him  to  have  a  letter  from 
the  rector  of  the  College  giving  some  directions  as  to  the 
date  of  return.  Yet  he  was  not  altogether  so  anxious 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     163 

to  return  as  he  had  been  towards  the  ends  of  former 
vacations.  ...  At  last  Farrell  McGuinness  appeared 
around  the  turn  of  the  road.  His  blue  uniform  was 
dusty,  and  he  carried  his  hard  little  cap  in  his  hand. 
He  dismounted  from  his  red  bicycle  and  took  two  letters 
out  of  his  bag.  He  smirked  obviously  as  he  performed 
this  action.  John  glanced  in  excitement  at  the  letters. 
One  was  addressed  in  the  handwriting  of  his  friend 
Ulick  Shannon  and  the  other  in  the  handwriting  of  a 
girl.  It  was  this  last  one  that  had  caused  Farrell  Mc- 
Guinness to  smirk  so  loudly. 

"  'Tis  you  that  has  the  times,  begad!"  he  said  to 
John  as  he  mounted  his  red  bicycle  and  went  on  up  the 
road,  fanning  his  hot  brow  with  his  hard  cap. 

Mrs.  Brennaii  came  to  the  door  to  hear  tidings  of  the 
letters  from  her  son,  but  John  was  already  hurrying 
down  through  the  withering  garden,  tearing  open  both 
letters  simultaneously. 

"Who  are  they  from?"  she  called  out. 

"From  Ulick  Shannon." 

"And  th 'other  one?" 

"From  a  chap  in  the  college,"  he  shouted  across  his 
shoulder,  lying  boldly  to  her  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life.  But  if  only  she  could  see  the  confusion  upon  his 
face? 

She  went  back  into  the  sewing-room,  a  feeling  of  an- 
noyance showing  in  the  deep  lines  about  her  eyes.  It 
seemed  strange  that  he  had  not  rushed  immediately  into 
the  house  to  tell  her  what  was  in  the  letters,  strange 
beyond  all  how  he  had  not  seen  his  way  to  make  that 
much  of  her. 

Down  the  garden  John  was  reading  Rebecca  Kerr's 


164     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

letter  first,  for  it  was  from  her  that  the  letter  from  "one 
of  the  chaps  in  the  college"  had  come. 

It  told  of  how  she  was  spending  her  holidays  at  a  sea- 
side village  in  Donegal.  "It  is  even  far  quieter  than 
Garradrimna  and  the  valley.  I  go  down  to  the  sea  in 
the  mornings,  but  it  is  only  to  think  and  dream.  The  sea 
is  just  like  one  big  lake,  more  lonely  by  far  than  the 
lake  in  the  valley.  This  is  surely  the  loneliest  place  you 
could  imagine,  but  there  is  a  certain  sense  of  peace  about 
it  that  is  quite  lovely.  It  is  some  distance  from  my 
home,  and  it  is  nice  to  be  amongst  people  who  have  no 
immense  concern  for  your  eternal  welfare.  I  like  this, 
and  so  I  have  avoided  making  acquaintances  here.  But 
next  week  I  am  expecting  a  very  dear  friend  to  join  me, 
and  so,  I  dare  say,  my  holidays  will  have  a  happy  end- 
ing after  all.  I  suppose  you  will  have  gone  from  the 
valley  when  I  go  back  in  October.  And  it  will  be  the 
dreary  place  then.  ..."  She  signed  herself,  "Yours 
very  sincerely,  Rebecca  Kerr." 

His  eyes  were  dancing  as  he  turned  to  read  Ulick 
Shannon's  letter.  ...  In  the  opening  passages  it  treated 
only  in  a  conventional  way  of  college  affairs,  but  sud- 
denly he  was  upon  certain  lines  which  to  his  mind 
seemed  so  blackly  emphasized: 

"Now  I  was  just  beginning  to  settle  back  into  the 
routine  of  things  when  who  should  come  along  but  Miss 
Kerr?  She  was  looking  fine.  She  stayed  a  few  days 
here  in  Dublin,  and  I  spent  most  of  them  with  her.  I 
gave  her  the  time  of  her  life,  the  poor  little  thing !  The- 
aters every  night,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  She  was  just 
lost  for  a  bit  of  enjoyment.  Grinding  away,  you  know, 
in  those  cursed  National  Schools  from  year's  end  to 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS      165 

year's  end.  Do  you  know  what  it  is,  John?  I  am  get- 
ting fonder  and  fonder  of  that  girl.  She  is  the  best 
little  soul  in  all  the  world. 

''She  is  spending  her  holidays  up  in  some  God-for- 
saken village  in  Donegal.  Away  from  her  people  and 
by  herself,  you  know.  She  has  a  girl  friend  going  to 
see  her  next  week.  You  will  not  be  able  to  believe  it 
probably — but  I  am  the  girl  friend." 

He  read  them  and  re-read  them,  these  two  letters 
which  bore  so  intimately  upon  one  another  and  which, 
through  the  coincidence  of  their  arrival  together,  held 
convincing  evidence  of  the  dramatic  moment  that  had 
arrived  in  the  adventure  of  those  two  lives. 

He  became  filled  by  an  aching  feeling  that  made  him 
shiver  and  grow  weak  as  if  with  some  unknown  expecta- 
tion. .  .  .  Yet  why  was  he  so  disturbed  in  his  mind  as 
to  this  happening;  what  had  he  to  do  with  it?  He  was 
one  whose  life  must  be  directed  away  from  such  things. 
But  the  vision  of  Rebecca  Kerr  would  be  filling  his  eyes 
forever.  And  why  had  she  written  to  him?  Why  had 
she  so  graphically  pictured  her  condition  of  loneliness 
wherein  he  might  enter  and  speak  to  her?  His  ac- 
quaintance with  her  was  very  slight,  and  yet  he  desired 
to  know  her  beyond  all  the  knowledge  and  beauty  of  the 
world.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  it  was  Ulick  Shannon 
who  was  now  going  where  he  longed  to  go. 

A  heavy  constraint  came  between  him  and  his  mother 
during  the  remaining  days.  He  spoke  little  and  moved 
about  in  meditation  like  one  fearful  of  things  about  to 
happen.  But  she  fondly  fancied  as  always  that  he  was 
immersed  in  contemplation  of  the  future  she  had  planned 
for  him.  She  never  saw  him  setting  forth  into  the 


166     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

autumn  fields,  a  book  in  his  hand,  that  she  did  not  fancy 
the  look  of  austere  aloofness  upon  his  face  to  be  the  ex- 
pression of  a  priest  reading  his  office.  But  thoughts  of 
this  kind  were  far  from  his  mind  in  the  fields  or  by  the 
little  wicket  gate  across  which  he  often  leaned,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  white,  hard  road  which  seemed  to  lead 
nowhere. 

The  day  of  his  release  at  last  came.  Now  that  Ned 
was  away  from  her,  working  in  Ballinamult,  she  had 
managed  to  scrape  together  the  price  of  another  motor 
drive  to  Kilaconnaghan,  but  it  was  in  the  misfortune  of 
things  that  Charlie  Clarke's  car  should  have  been  en- 
gaged for  the  very  day  of  John's  departure  by  the 
Houlihans  of  Clonabroney.  It  worried  her  greatly  that 
she  could  not  have  this  piece  of  grandeur  upon  this  sec- 
ond occasion.  Her  intense  devotion  to  religious  litera- 
ture had  made  her  superstitious  to  a  distressing  degree. 
It  appeared  to  her  as  an  omen  across  the  path  of  John 
and  her  own  magnification.  But  John  did  not  seem  to 
mind. 

It  was  notable  that  through  his  advance  into  contem- 
plation he  had  triumphed  over  the  power  of  the  valley 
to  a  certain  extent.  So  long  as  his  mind  had  been  alto- 
gether absorbed  in  thought  of  the  priesthood  he  had 
moved  about  furtively,  a  fugitive,  as  it  were,  before  the 
hateful  looks  of  the  people  of  the  valley  and  the  constant 
stare  of  the  squinting  windows.  Now  he  had  come  into 
a  little  tranquillity  and  his  heart  was  not  without  some 
happiness  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  larger  vision.  .  .  . 
And  yet  he  was  far  from  being  completely  at  peace. 

As  he  sat  driving  with  his  mother  in  the  ass-trap  to 
Kilaconnaghan,  on  his  way  back  to  the  grand  college  in 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     167 

England,  his  doubts  were  assailing  him  although  he  was 
so  quiet,  to  all  seeming,  sitting  there.  Those  who  passed 
them  upon  the  road  never  guessed  that  this  pale-faced 
young  man  in  black  was  at  war  with  his  soul.  .  .  .  Few 
words  passed  between  him  and  his  mother,  for  the  con- 
straint of  the  past  week  had  not  yet  been  lifted.  She 
was  beginning  to  feel  so  lonely,  and  she  was  vexed  with 
herself  that  the  period  of  his  stay  in  the  valley  had  not 
been  all  she  had  dreamt  of  making  it.  It  had  been  dis- 
appointing to  a  depressing  extent,  and  now  especially  in 
its  concluding  stage.  This  sad  excursion  in  the  little 
ass-trap,  without  any  of  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
which  John  so  highly  deserved,  was  a  poor,  mean  ending. 
He  was  running  over  in  his  mind  the  different  causes 
which  had  given  this  vacation  its  unusual  character. 
First  there  came  remembrance  of  his  journey  down  from 
Dublin  with  Mr.  Myles  Shannon,  who  had  then  sug- 
gested the  friendship  with  his  nephew  Ulick.  Springing 
out  of  this  thought  was  a  very  vivid  impression  of  Gar- 
radrimna,  that  ugly  place  which  he  had  discovered  in  its 
true  colors  for  the  first  time;  its  vile  set  of  drunkards 
and  the  few  secret  lapses  it  had  occasioned  him.  Then 
there  was  his  father,  that  fallen  and  besotted  man  whom 
the  valley  had  ruined  past  all  hope.  As  a  more  intimate 
recollection  his  own  doubts  of  the  religious  life  by  the 
lakeside  arose  clear  before  him.  And  the  lake  itself 
seemed  very  near,  for  it  had  been  the  silent  witness  of 
all  his  moods  and  conditions,  the  dead  thing  that  had 
gathered  to  itself  a  full  record  of  his  sojourn  in  the  val- 
ley. But,  above  all,  there  was  Rebecca  Kerr,  whom  he 
had  contrived  to  meet  so  often  as  she  went  from  school. 
It  was  she  who  now  brought  light  to  all  the  darkened 


168     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

places  of  his  memory.  Her  letter  to  him  the  other  day 
was  the  one  real  thing  he  had  been  given  to  take  away 
from  the  valley.  How  he  longed  to  read  it  again !  But 
his  mother's  eyes  were  upon  him.  ...  At  last  he  began 
to  have  a  little  thought  of  the  part  she  had  played. 

Already  they  had  reached  the  railway  station  of  Kila- 
connaghan.  They  went  together  through  the  little  wait- 
ing-room, which  held  sad  memories  for  Mrs.  Brennan, 
and  out  upon  the  platform,  where  a  couple  of  porters 
leaned  against  their  barrows  chewing  tobacco.  Two  or 
three  passengers  were  sitting  around  beside  their  luggage 
waiting  to  take  the  train  for  Dublin.  A  few  bank  clerks 
from  the  town  were  standing  in  a  little  group  which  pos- 
sessed an  imaginary  distinction,  laughing  in  a  genteel 
way  at  a  puerile  joke  from  some  of  the  London  weekly 
journals.  They  were  wearing  sporting  clothes  and  had 
fresh  fags  in  their  mouths.  It  was  an  essential  portion 
of  their  occupation,  this  perpetual  delight  in  watching 
the  outgoing  afternoon  train. 

"Aren't  they  the  grand-looking  young  swells?"  said 
Mrs.  Brennan;  "I  suppose  them  have  the  great  jobs 
now?" 

"Great!"  replied  John,  quite  unconscious  of  what  he 
said. 

He  spoke  no  other  word  till  he  took  his  place  in  the 
train.  She  kissed  him  through  the  open  window  and 
hung  affectionately  to  his  hand.  .  .  .  Then  there  flut- 
tered in  upon  them  the  moment  of  parting.  .  .  .  Smiling 
wistfully  and  waving  her  hand,  she  watched  the  train 
until  it  had  rounded  a  curve.  She  lingered  for  a  mo- 
ment by  the  advertisement  for  Jameson's  Whiskey  in  the 
waiting-room  to  wipe  her  eyes.  She  began  to  remember 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     169 

how  she  had  behaved  here  in  this  very  place  on  the  day 
of  John's  home-coming,  and  of  how  he  had  left  her 
standing  while  he  talked  to  Myles  Shannon.  ...  He 
seemed  to  have  slipped  away  from  her  now,  and  her 
present  thought  made  her  feel  that  the  shadow  of  the 
Shannon  family,  stretching  far  across  her  life,  had  at- 
tended his  going  as  it  had  attended  his  coming. 

She  went  out  to  the  little  waiting  ass  and,  mounting 
into  the  trap,  drove  out  of  Kilaconnaghan  into  the  dark 
forest  of  her  fears. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

rpHROUGH  the  earlier  part  of  this  term  at  college 
-••  there  was  no  peace  in  the  mind  of  John  Brennan, 
and  his  unsettled  state  arose,  for  the  most  part,  from 
simple  remembrance  of  things  that  had  happened  in  the 
valley.  Now  it  was  because  he  could  see  again,  some 
afternoon  in  the  summer,  Rebecca  Kerr  coming  towards 
him  down  the  road  in  a  brown  and  white  striped  dress, 
that  he  thought  was  pretty,  and  swinging  a  sun-bonnet 
by  its  long  cotton  strings  from  her  soft,  small  hand.  Or 
again,  some  hour  he  had  spent  listening  to  Ulick  Shan- 
non as  he  talked  about  the  things  of  life  which  are 
marked  only  by  the  beauty  of  passion  and  death.  Al- 
ways, too,  with  the  aid  of  two  letters  he  still  treasured, 
his  imagination  would  leap  towards  the  creation  of  a 
picture — Rebecca  and  Ulick  together  in  far-off  Donegal. 
He  did  not  go  home  at  Christmas  because  it  was  so 
expensive  to  return  to  Ireland,  and  in  the  lonely  stretches 
of  the  vacation,  when  all  his  college  friends  were  away 
from  him,  he  felt  that  they  must  surely  be  meeting  again, 
meeting  and  kissing  in  some  quiet,  dusky  place — Re- 
becca as  he  had  seen  her  always  and  Ulick  as  he  had 
known  him. 

Even  if  he  had  wished  to  leave  Ulick  and  Rebecca  out 
of  his  mind,  it  would  have  been  impossible,  so  persist- 
ently did  his  mother  refer  to  both  in  her  letters.     There 
was  never  a  letter  which  did  not  contain  some  allusion 
170 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     171 

to  "them  two"  or  "that  one"  or  "that  fellow."  In 
February,  when  the  days  began  to  stretch  out  again,  he 
thought  only  of  the  valley  coming  nearer,  with  its  long 
period  of  delight.  .  .  .  Within  the  fascination  of  his 
musing  he  grew  forgetful  of  his  lofty  future.  Yet  there 
were  odd  moments  when  he  remembered  that  he  had 
moved  into  the  valley  a  very  different  man  at  the  begin- 
ning of  last  June.  The  valley  had  changed  him,  and 
might  continue  to  change  him  when  he  went  there  again. 
Nothing  came  to  stay  the  even  rise  of  his  yearning 
save  his  mother's  letters,  which  were  the  same  recitals  at 
all  times  of  stories  about  the  same  people.  At  no  time 
did  he  expect  to  find  anything  new  in  them,  and  so  it 
was  all  the  stronger  blow  when  from  one  letter  leaped 
out  the  news  that  Ulick  Shannon  had  failed  to  pass  his 
final  medical  exam.,  and  was  now  living  at  home  in 
Scarden  House  with  his  uncle  Myles.  That  he  had  been 
"expelled  from  the  University  and  disgraced"  was  the 
way  she  put  it.  It  did  not  please  John  to  see  that  she 
was  exulting  over  what  had  happened  to  Ulick  while 
hinting  at  the  same  time  that  there  was  no  fear  of  a  like 
calamity  happening  to  her  son.  To  him  it  appeared  as 
not  at  all  such  an  event  as  one  might  exult  about.  It 
rather  evoked  pity  and  condolence  in  the  thought  that 
it  might  happen  to  any  man.  It  might  happen  to  him- 
self. Here  surely  was  a  fearful  thing — the  sudden 
dread  of  his  return  to  the  valley,  a  disgrace  for  life,  and 
his  mother  a  ruined  woman  in  the  downfall  of  her  son. 
.  .  .  This  last  letter  of  hers  had  brought  him  to  review 
all  the  brave  thoughts  that  had  come  to  him  by  the  lake- 
side, wild  thoughts  of  living  his  own  life,  not  in  the  way 
appointed  for  him  by  any  other  person,  but  freely,  after 


172     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  bent  of  his  own  will.  Yet  when  he  came  to  think 
of  it  quietly  there  was  not  much  he  could  do  in  the  world 
with  his  present  education.  It  seemed  to  have  fitted  him 
only  for  one  kind  of  life.  And  his  thoughts  of  the  sum- 
mer might  have  been  only  passing  distractions  which 
must  disappear  with  the  full  development  of  his  mind. 
To  think  of  those  ideas  ever  coming  suddenly  to  reality 
would  be  a  blow  too  powerful  to  his  mother.  It  would 
kill  her.  For,  with  other  knowledge,  the  summer  holi- 
days had  brought  him  to  see  how  much  she  looked  for- 
ward to  his  becoming  a  priest. 

Quite  unconsciously,  without  the  least  effort  of  his 
will,  he  found  himself  returning  to  his  old,  keen  interest 
in  his  studies.  He  found  himself  coming  back  to  his 
lost  peace  of  mind.  He  felt  somehow  that  his  enjoy- 
ment of  this  grand  contentment  was  the  very  best  way 
he  could  flash  back  his  mother 's  love.  Besides  it  was  the 
best  earnest  he  had  of  the  enjoyment  of  his  coming  holi- 
days. 

Then  the  disaster  came.  The  imminence  of  it  had  been 
troubling  the  rector  for  a  long  time.  His  college  was  in 
a  state  of  disintegration,  for  the  Great  War  had  cast  its 
shadow  over  the  quiet  walls. 

It  was  a  charity  college.  This  was  a  secret  that  had 
been  well  kept  from  the  people  of  the  valley  by  Mrs. 
Brennan.  "A  grand  college  in  England"  was  the  ut- 
most information  she  would  ever  vouchsafe  to  any  in- 
quirer. She  had  formed  a  friendly  alliance  with  the 
old,  bespectacled  postmistress  and  made  all  her  things 
free  of  charge  for  keeping  close  the  knowledge  of  John 's 
exact  whereabouts  in  England,  Yet  there  was  never  a 
letter  from  mother  to  son  or  from  son  to  mother  that 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     173 

the  old  maid  did  not  consider  it  her  bounden  duty  to 
open  and  read. 

The  college  had  been  supported  by  good  people  who 
could  find  nothing  else  to  do  with  their  money.  But,  in 
war-time,  charity  was  diverted  into  other  channels,  and 
its  income  had  consequently  dwindled  almost  to  vanish- 
ing point.  Coupled  with  this,  many  of  the  students  had 
left  aside  their  books  and  gone  into  the  Army.  One 
morning  the  rector  appeared  in  the  lecture-hall  to  an- 
nounce to  the  remnant  that  the  college  was  about  to  be 
closed  for  "some  time."  He  meant  indefinitely,  but  the 
poor  man  could  not  put  it  in  that  way. 

John  heard  the  news  with  mingled  feelings.  In  a 
dumb  way  he  had  longed  for  this  after  his  return  from 
the  valley,  but  now  he  saw  in  it,  not  the  arrival  of  a 
desired  event,  but  a  postponement  of  the  great  intention 
that  had  begun  to  absorb  him  again.  He  was  achieving 
his  desire  in  a  way  that  made  it  a  punishment.  .  .  .  To- 
morrow he  would  be  going  home.  .  .  .  But  of  course  his 
mother  knew  everything  by  this  time  and  was  already 
preparing  a  welcome  for  him. 

The  March  evening  was  gray  and  cold  when  he  came 
into  the  deserted  station  of  Kilaconnaghan.  It  had  been 
raining  ceaselessly  since  Christmas,  and  around  and 
away  from  him  stretched  the  sodden  country.  He  got  a 
porter  to  take  his  trunk  out  to  the  van  and  stand  it  on 
end  upon  the  platform.  Then  he  went  into  the  waiting- 
room  to  meet  his  mother.  But  she  was  not  there.  Nor 
was  the  little  donkey  and  trap  outside  the  station  house. 
Perhaps  she  was  coming  to  meet  him  with  Charlie  Clarke 
in  the  grand  and  holy  motor  car.  If  he  went  on  he 
might  meet  them  coming  through  Kilaconnaghan.  He 


174     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

got  the  porter  to  take  his  box  from  its  place  on  the  plat- 
form and  put  it  into  the  waiting-room.  All  down 
through  the  town  there  was  no  sign  of  them,  and  when 
he  got  out  upon  the  road  to  Garradrimna  and  the  valley 
there  was  no  sign  of  them  either.  The  night  had  fallen 
thick  and  heavy,  and  John,  as  he  went  on  through  the 
rain,  looked  forward  to  the  comforting  radiance  of  Char- 
lie Clarke's  headlights  suddenly  to  flash  around  every 
corner.  But  the  car  did  not  come  and  he  began  to  grow 
weary  of  tramping  through  the  wet  night.  All  along 
the  way  he  was  meeting  people  who  shouldered  up  to 
him  and  strove  to  peer  into  his  face  as  he  slipped  past. 
He  did  not  come  on  to  the  valley  road  by  way  of  Garra- 
drimna, but  instead  by  The  Road  of  the  Dead,  down 
which  he  went  slopping  through  great  pools  at  every 
few  yards. 

He  was  very  weary  when  he  came  at  last  to  the  door 
of  his  mother's  house.  Before  knocking  he  had  listened 
for  a  while  to  the  low  hum  of  her  reading  to  his  father. 
Then  he  heard  her  moving  to  open  the  door,  and  imme- 
diately she  was  silhouetted  in  the  lamp-light. 

' '  Is  that  you,  John  ?  We  knew  you  were  coming  home. 
We  got  the  rector 's  letter. ' ' 

He  noticed  a  queer  coldness  in  her  tone. 

"I'd  rather  to  God  that  anything  in  the  world  had 
happened  than  this.  What '11  they  say  now?  They'll 
say  you  were  expelled.  As  sure  as  God,  they  11  say  you 
were  expelled ! ' ' 

He  threw  himself  into  the  first  chair  he  saw. 

"Did  any  one  meet  you  down  the  road?  Did  many 
meet  you  from  this  to  Kilaconnaghan  ? " 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     175 

He  did  not  answer.  This  was  a  curious  welcome  he 
was  receiving.  Yet  he  noticed  that  tears  were  beginning 
to  creep  into  her  eyes,  which  were  also  red  as  if  from 
much  recent  weeping. 

"Oh,  God  knows,  and  God  knows  again,  John,  I'd 
rather  have  died  than  it  should  have  come  to  this.  And 
why  was  it  that  after  all  me  contriving  and  after  all  me 
praying  and  good  works  this  bitter  cross  should  have 
fallen?  I  don't  know.  I  can't  think  for  what  I  am 
being  punished  and  why  misfortune  should  come  to  you. 
And  what '11  they  say  at  all  at  all?  Oh  you  may  depend 
upon  it  that  it's  the  worst  thing  they'll  say.  But  you 
mustn't  tell  them  that  the  college  is  finished.  For  I 
suppose  it's  finished  now  the  way  everything  is  going 
to  be  finished  before  the  war.  But  you  mustn't  say 
that.  You  must  say  that  it  is  on  special  holidays  you 
are,  after  having  passed  a  special  examination.  And 
you  must  behave  as  if  you  were  on  holidays ! ' ' 

Such  a  dreadful  anxiety  was  upon  her  that  she  ap- 
peared no  longer  as  his  mother,  the  infinitely  tender 
woman,  he  had  known.  She  now  seemed  to  possess  none 
of  the  pure  contentment  her  loving  tenderness  should 
have  brought  her.  She  was  altogether  concerned  as  to 
what  the  people  would  say  and  not  as  to  the  effect  of 
the  happening  upon  her  son's  career.  He  had  begun 
to  think  of  this  for  himself,  but  it  was  not  of  it  that 
she  was  now  thinking.  .  .  .  She  was  thinking  of  her- 
self, of  her  pride,  and  that  was  why  she  had  not  come 
to  meet  him.  And  now  his  clothes  were  wet  and  he 
was  tired,  for  he  had  walked  from  Kilaconnaghan  in 
the  rain. 


176     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Ned  Brennan,  stirring  out  of  his  drunken  doze,  mut- 
tered thickly:  "Ah,  God  blast  yourselves  and  your 
college,  can't  you  let  a  fellow  have  a  sleep  be  the  fire 
after  his  hard  day!" 


CHAPTER  XXII 

JOHN  went  from  the  kitchen  to  a  restless  night. 
Soon  after  daybreak  he  got  up  and  looked  out  of 
the  window.  The  crows  had  been  flying  across  it  darkly 
since  the  beginning  of  the  light.  He  gazed  down  now 
towards  the  stretch  of  trees  about  the  lake.  They  were 
dark  figures  in  the  somber  picture.  He  had  not  seen 
them  since  autumn,  and  even  then  some  of  the  bright- 
ness of  summer  had  lingered  with  them.  Now  they 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  weeping.  He  could  see  the 
lake  between  the  clumps  of  fir-trees.  The  water  was  all 
dark  like  the  scene  in  which  it  was  framed.  It  now 
beat  itself  into  a  futile  imitation  of  billows,  into  a  kind 
of  make-believe  before  the  wild  things  around  that  it 
was  an  angry  sea,  holding  deep  in  its  caverns  the  relics 
of  great  dooms.  But  the  trees  seemed  to  rock  in  enjoy- 
ment and  to  join  forces  with  the  wild  things  in  torment- 
ing the  lake. 

John  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  early  hours,  and 
there  would  be  no  need  to  go  out  for  a  long  time.  He 
went  back  to  bed  and  remained  there  without  sleep, 
gazing  up  at  the  ceiling.  .  .  .  He  fell  to  thinking  of 
what  he  would  have  to  face  in  the  valley  now.  .  .  . 
His  mother  had  hinted  at  the  wide  scope  of  it  last  night 
when  she  said  that  she  would  rather  anything  in  God's 
world  had  happened  than  this  thing,  this  sudden 
177 


178     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

home-coming.  .  .  .  She  was  thinking  only  of  her 
own  pride.  It  was  an  offense  against  her  pride,  he  felt, 
and  that  was  all.  It  stood  to  lessen  the  exalted  position 
which  the  purpose  of  his  existence  gave  her  before  the 
other  women  of  the  valley.  But  he  had  begun  to  feel 
the  importance  of  his  own  person  in  the  scheme  of  cir- 
cumstance by  which  he  was  surrounded.  It  had  begun 
to  appear  to  him  that  he  mattered  somehow;  that  in 
some  undreamt-of  way  he  might  leave  his  mark  upon 
the  valley  before  he  died. 

He  would  go  to  Mass  in  Garradrimna  this  morning. 
He  very  well  knew  how  this  attendance  at  morning  Mass 
was  a  comfort  to  his  mother.  He  was  about  to  do  this 
thing  to  please  her  now.  Yet,  how  was  the  matter  going 
to  affect  himself?  He  would  be  stared  at  by  the  very 
walls  and  trees  as  he  went  the  wet  road  into  Garra- 
drimna; and  no  matter  what  position  he  might  take  up 
in  the  chapel  there  would  be  very  certain  to  be  a  few 
who  would  come  kneeling  together  into  a  little  group 
and,  in  hushed  tones  within  the  presence  of  their  God 
upon  the  altar,  say: 

"Now,  isn't  that  John  Brennan  I  see  before  me,  or 
can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Aye,  it  must  be  him.  Expelled, 
I  suppose.  Begad  that's  great.  Expelled!  Begad!" 
If  he  happened  to  take  the  slightest  side-glance  around, 
he  would  catch  glimpses  of  eyes  sunk  low  beneath  brows 
which  published  expressions  midway  between  pity  and 
contempt,  between  delight  and  curiosity.  ...  In  some 
wonderful  way  the  first  evidence  of  his  long  hoped  for 
downfall  would  spread  throughout  the  small  congrega- 
tion. Those  in  front  would  let  their  heads  or  prayer- 
books  fall  beside  or  behind  them,  so  that  they  might  have 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     179 

an  excuse  for  turning  around  to  view  the  young  man 
who,  in  his  unfortunate  presence  here,  stood  for  this 
glad  piece  of  intelligence.  The  acolytes  serving  Father 
O'Keeffe,  and  having  occasional  glimpses  of  the  con- 
gregation, would  see  the  black-coated  figure  set  there  in 
contradistinction  to  Charlie  Clarke  and  the  accustomed 
voteens  with  the  bobbing  bonnets.  In  their  wise  looks 
up  at  him  they  would  seem  to  communicate  the  news 
to  the  priest. 

And  although  only  a  very  few  seconds  had  elapsed, 
Father  O'Keeffe  would  have  thrown  off  his  vestments 
and  be  going  bounding  towards  the  Presbytery  for  his 
breakfast  as  John  emerged  from  the  chapel.  It  would 
be  an  ostentatious  meeting.  Although  he  had  neither 
act  nor  part  in  it,  nor  did  he  favor  it  in  any  way, 
Father  O'Keeffe  always  desired  people  to  think  that  it 
was  he  who  was  "doing  for  Mrs.  Brennan's  boy  beyond 
in  England."  .  .  .  There  would  be  the  usual  flow  of 
questions,  a  deep  pursing  of  the  lips,  and  the  sudden 
creation  of  a  wise,  concerned,  ecclesiastical  look  at  every 
answer.  Then  there  was  certain  to  come  the  final  brutal 
question:  "And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  your- 
self meanwhile,  is  it  any  harm  to  ask?"  As  he  con- 
tinued to  stare  up  vacantly  at  the  ceiling,  John  could 
not  frame  a  possible  answer  to  that  question.  And  yet 
he  knew  it  would  be  the  foremost  of  Father  O'Keeffe 's 
questions. 

There  would  be  the  hurried  crowding  into  every  door- 
way and  into  all  the  squinting  windows  as  he  went  past. 
Outwardly  there  would  be  smiles  of  welcome  for  him, 
but  in  the  seven  publichouses  of  Garradrimna  the  exulta- 
tion would  be  so  great  as  to  make  men  who  had  been 


180     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ancient  enemies  stand  drinks  to  one  another  in  the  mo- 
ment of  gladness  which  had  come  upon  them  with  the 
return  of  John  Brennan. 

"  'Tis  expelled  he  is  like  Ulick  Shannon.  That's  as 
sure  as  you're  there!" 

"To  be  sure  he's  expelled.  And  wouldn't  any  one 
know  he  was  going  to  be  expelled  the  same  as  the  other 
fellow,  the  way  they  were  conducting  themselves  last 
summer,  running  after  gerrls  and  drinking  like  hell?" 

"And  did  ye  ever  hear  such  nonsense?  The  idea  of 
him  going  on  for  to  be  a  priest ! ' '  Then  there  would 
be  a  shaking  of  wise  heads  and  a  coming  of  wise  looks 
into  their  faces. 

He  could  see  what  would  happen  when  he  met  the 
fathers  of  Garradrimna,  when  he  met  Padna  Padna  or 
Shamesy  Golliher.  There  would  be  the  short,  dry  laugh 
from  Padna  Padna,  and  a  pathetic  scrambling  of  the 
dimming  intelligence  to  recognize  him. 

"And  is  that  you,  John?  Back  again!  Well,  boys- 
a-day!  And  isn't  it  grand  that  Ulick  Shannon  is  at 
home  these  times  too?  Isn't  it  a  pity  about  Ulick,  for 
he's  a  decent  fellow?  Every  bit  as  decent  as  his  father, 
Henry  Shannon,  was,  and  he  was  a  damned  decent 
fellow.  Ah,  'tis  a  great  pity  of  him  to  be  exshpelled. 
Aye,  'tis  a  great  pity  of  any  one  that  does  be  exsh- 
pelled." 

The  meeting  with  Shamesy  Golliher  formed  as  a  clearer 
picture  before  his  mind. 

"Arrah  me  sound  man,  John,  sure  I  thought  you'd 
be  saying  the  Mass  before  this  time.  There's  nothing 
strange  in  the  valley  at  all.  Only  'tis  harder  than  ever 
to  get  the  rabbits,  the  weeshy  devils!  Only  for  Ulick 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     181 

Shannon  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  for  a  drink  some- 
times. But,  damn  it,  he's  the  decentest  fellow.  .  .  . 
You  're  only  a  few  minutes  late,  sure  'tis  only  this  blessed 
minute  that  Miss  Kerr's  gone  on  to  the  school.  .  .  . 
And  you  could  have  been  chatting  with  her  so  grandly 
all  the  way ! ' ' 

That  John  Brennan  should  be  thinking  after  this 
fashion,  creating  all  those  little  scenes  before  the  eye  of 
his  mind  and  imagining  their  accompanying  conversa- 
tions, was  indicative  of  the  way  the  valley  and  the 
village  had  forced  their  reality  upon  him  last  summer. 
But  this  pictured  combination  of  incidents  was  intensi- 
fied by  a  certain  morbid  way  of  dwelling  upon  things 
his  long  spells  of  meditation  by  the  lake  had  brought 
him.  Yet  he  knew  that  even  all  his  clear  vision  of  the 
mean  ways  of  life  around  him  would  not  act  as  an  in- 
centive to  combat  them  but,  most  extraordinary  to 
imagine,  as  a  sort  of  lure  towards  the  persecution  of 
their  scenes  and  incidents. 

"It  must  be  coming  near  time  to  rise  for  Mass,"  he 
said  aloud  to  himself,  as  he  felt  that  he  had  been  quite 
a  long  time  giving  himself  up  to  speculations  in  which 
there  was  no  joy. 

There  was  a  tap  upon  the  door.  It  was  his  mother 
calling  him,  as  had  been  her  custom  during  all  the  days 
of  his  holiday  times.  The  door  opened  and  she  came  into 
the  room.  Her  manner  seemed  to  have  changed  some- 
what from  the  night  before.  The  curious  look  of  ten- 
derness she  had  always  displayed  while  gazing  upon 
him  seemed  to  have  struggled  back  into  her  eyes.  She 
came  and  sat  by  the  bedside  and,  for  a  few  moments, 
both  were  silent. 


182     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"  'Tis  very  cold  this  morning,  mother,"  was  the  only 
thing  John  could  think  of  saying. 

A  slight  confusion  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her 
since  her  entrance  to  the  room.  Without  any  warning 
by  a  word,  she  suddenly  threw  her  arms  about  him  as 
he  lay  there  on  the  bed  and  covered  his  face  with  kisses. 
He  was  amazed,  but  her  kisses  seemed  to  hurt  him.  .  .  . 
It  must  have  been  years  and  years  since  she  had  kissed 
him' like  this,  and  now  he  was  a  man.  .  .  .  When  she 
released  him  so  that  he  could  look  up  at  her  he  saw  that 
she  was  crying. 

"I'm  sorry  about  last  night,  John,"  she  said.  "I'm 
sorry,  darling;  but  surely  I  could  not  bring  myself  to 
do  it.  Even  for  a  few  hours  I  wanted  to  keep  them  from 
knowing.  I  even  wanted  to  keep  your  father  from 
knowing.  So  I  did  not  tell  him  until  I  heard  your  poor, 
wet  foot  come  sopping  up  to  the  door.  He  did  not 
curse  much  then,  for  he  seems  to  have  begun  to  feel  a 
little  respect  for  you.  But  the  curses  of  him  all  through 
the  night  were  enough  to  lift  the  roof  off  the  house. 
Oh,  he's  the  terrible  man,  for  all  me  praying  and  all 
me  reading  to  him  of  good,  holy  books ;  and  'tis  no  won- 
der for  all  kinds  of  misfortune  to  fall,  though  God  be- 
tween us  and  all  harm,  what  am  I  saying  at  all?  ... 
It  was  the  hard,  long  walk  down  the  wet,  dark  road 
from  Kilaconnaghan  last  night,  and  it  pained  me  every 
inch  of  the  way.  If  it  hurt  your  feet  and  your  limbs, 
avic,  remember  that  your  suffering  was  nothing  to  the 
pain  that  plowed  through  your  mother's  heart  all  the 
while  you  were  coming  along  to  this  house.  .  .  .  But 
God  only  knows  I  couldn't.  I  couldn't  let  them  see 
me  setting  off  into  the  twilight  upon  the  little  ass,  and  I 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     183 

going  for  me  son.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  catch  the 
little  ass  and  yoke  him,  and  put  on  the  grand  clothes 
I  was  decked  out  in  when  I  met  you  last  June  with  the 
motor.  But  somehow  I  hadn  't  the  heart  for  the  journey 
this  time,  and  you  coming  home  before  you  were  due. 
I  couldn't  let  them  see  me!  I  couldn't  let  them  see 
me,  so  I  couldn't!" 

"But  it  is  not  my  fault,  mother.  I  have  not  brought 
it  about  directly  by  any  action  of  mine.  It  comes  from 
the  changed  state  of  everything  on  account  of  the  Great 
War.  You  may  say  it  came  naturally." 

"Ah,  sure  I  know  that,  dear,  I  know  it  well,  and  don't 
be  troubling  yourself.  In  the  letter  of  the  rector  before 
the  very  last  one  didn't  he  mention  the  change  of  re- 
signed application  that  had  at  last  come  to  you,  and  that 
you  had  grown  less  susceptible — I  think  that  is  the 
grand  word  he  used — aye,  less  susceptible  to  distrac- 
tions and  more  quiet  in  your  mind?  And  I  knew  as 
well  as  anything  that  it  was  coming  to  pass  so  beauti- 
fully, that  all  the  long  prayers  I  had  said  for  you  upon 
me  two  bare,  bended  knees  were  after  being  heard  at 
last,  and  a  great  joy  was  just  beginning  to  come  surg- 
ing into  me  heart  when  the  terrible  blow  of  the  last 
letter  fell  down  upon  me.  But  sure  I  used  to  be  having 
the  queerest  dreams,  and  I  felt  that  nothing  good  was 
going  to  happen  when  Ulick  Shannon  came  down  here 
expelled  from  the  University  in  Dublin.  You  used  to 
be  a  great  deal  in  his  company  last  summer,  and  mebbe 
there  was  some  curse  put  upon  the  both  of  you  together. 
May  God  forgive  me,  but  I  hate  that  young  fellow  like 
poison.  I  don't  know  rightly  why  it  is,  but  it  vexes 
me  to  see  him  idling  around  the  way  hfc  is  after  what's 


184     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

happened  to  him.  Bragging  about  being  expelled  he 
bees  every  day  in  McDermott's  of  Garradrimna.  And 
his  uncle  Myles  is  every  bit  as  bad,  going  to  keep  him  at 
home  until  the  end  of  next  summer.  '  To  give  him  time 
to  think  of  things,'  he  says.  'I'm  going  to  find  a  use 
for  him,'  he  says  to  any  one  that  asks  him,  'never  you 
fear!'  Well,  begad,  'tis  a  grand  thing  not  to  know 
what  to  do  with  your  money  like  the  Shannons  of  Scar- 
tlen  Hill.  .  .  .  But  sure  I'm  talking  and  talking.  'Tis 
what  I  came  in  to  tell  you  now  of  the  plan  I  have  been 
making  up  all  night.  If  we  let  them  see  that  we're 
lying  down  under  this  misfortune  we're  bet  surely.  We 
must  put  a  brave  face  upon  it.  You  must  make  a  big 
show-off  that  you're  after  getting  special  holidays  for 
some  great,  successful  examination  you've  passed  ahead 
of  any  one  else  in  the  college.  I'll  let  on  I'm  delighted, 
and  be  mad  to  tell  it  to  every  customer  that  comes  into 
the  sewing-room.  But  you  must  help  me;  you  must 
go  about  saying  hard  things  of  Ulick  Shannon  that's 
after  being  expelled,  for  that's  the  very  best  way  you 
can  do  it.  He'll  mebbe  seek  your  company  like  last 
year,  but  you  must  let  him  see  for  certain  that  you  con- 
sider yourself  a  deal  above  him.  But  you  musn't  be 
so  quiet  and  go  moping  so  much  about  the  lake  as  you 
used  to.  You  must  go  about  everywhere,  talking  of 
yourself  and  what  you're  going  to  be.  Now  you  must 
do  all  this  for  my  sake — won't  you,  John?" 

His  tremulous  "yes"  was  very  unenthusiastic  and 
seemed  to  hold  no  great  promise  of  fulfilment.  These 
were  hard  things  his  mother  was  asking  him  to  do,  and 
he  would  require  some  time  to  think  them  over.  .  .  . 
But  even  now  he  wondered  was  it  in  him  to  do  them 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     185 

at  all.  The  attitude  towards  Ulick  Shannon  which  she 
now  proposed  would  be  a  curious  thing,  for  they  had 
been  the  best  of  friends. 

"And  while  you're  doing  this  thing  for  me,  John, 
I'll  be  going  on  with  me  plans  for  your  future.  It 
was  me,  and  me  only,  that  set  up  this  beautiful  plan  of 
the  priesthood  as  the  future  I  wanted  for  you.  I  got 
no  one  to  help  me,  I  can  tell  you  that.  Only  every  one 
to  raise  their  hands  against  me.  And  in  spite  of  all 
that  I  carried  me  plan  to  what  success  the  rector  spoke 
of  in  his  last  letter.  And  even  though  this  shadow 
has  fallen  across  it,  me  son  and  meself  between  us  are 
not  going  to  let  it  be  the  end.  For  I  want  to  see  you  a 
priest,  John.  I  want  to  see  you  a  priest  before  I  die. 
God  knows  I  want  to  see  that  before  I  die.  Nan  Byrne's 
son  a  priest  before  she  dies!" 

Her  speech  mounted  to  such  a  pitch  of  excitement 
that  towards  the  end  it  trailed  away  into  a  long,  frenzied 
scream.  It  awoke  Ned  Brennan  where  he  dozed  fitfully 
in  the  next  room,  and  he  roared  out: 

"Ah,  what  the  hell  are  yous  gosthering  and  croaking 
about  in  there  at  this  hour  of  the  morning,  the  two  of 
yous?  It'd  be  serving  you  a  lot  better  to  be  down 
getting  me  breakfast,  Nan  Byrne!" 

She  came  away  very  quietly  from  the  bedside  of  her 
son  and  left  the  room.  John  remained  for  some  time 
thinking  over  the  things  she  had  been  saying.  Then 
he  rose  wearily  and  went  downstairs.  It  was  only  now 
he  noticed  that  his  mother  had  dried  his  clothes.  It 
must  have  taken  her  a  good  portion  of  the  night  to 
do  this.  His  boots,  which  had  been  so  wet  and  muddy 
after  his  walk  from  Kilaconnaghan,  were  now  polished 


186     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  resplendence  and  standing  clean  and  dry  beside  the 
fire.  The  full  realization  of  these  small  actions  brought 
a  fine  feeling  of  tenderness  into  his  mind.  ...  He 
quickly  prepared  himself  to  leave  the  house.  She  ob- 
served him  with  concern  as  she  went  about  cooking  the 
breakfast  for  her  man. 

"You're  not  going  to  Mass  this  morning,  are  ye, 
John  ? ' ' 

1 '  Oh,  no ! "  he  replied  with  a  nervous  quickness. 
"Our  chat  delayed  me.  It  is  now  past  nine." 

"Ah,  dear,  sure  I  never  thought  while  I  was  talking. 
The  last  time  I  kept  you  it  was  the  morning  after  the 
concert,  and  even  then  you  were  in  time  for  'half -past 
eight'  .  .  .  But  sure,  anyhow,  you're  too  tired  this 
morning. ' ' 

"I'm  going  for  a  little  walk  before  breakfast." 

The  words  broke  in  queerly  upon  the  thought  she 
had  just  expressed,  but  his  reason  was  nothing  more 
than  to  avoid  his  father,  who  would  be  presently  snap- 
ping savagely  at  his  breakfast  in  the  kitchen. 

The  wet  road  was  cheerless  and  the  bare  trees  and 
fields  were  cold  and  lonely.  Everything  was  in  contrast 
to  the  mood  in  which  he  had  known  it  last  summer.  It 
seemed  as  if  he  would  never  know  it  in  that  mood  again. 
Now  that  he  had  returned  it  was  a  poor  thing  and  very 
small  beside  the  pictures  his  dream  had  made.  ...  He 
was  wandering  down  The  Road  of  the  Dead  and  there 
was  a  girl  coming  towards  him.  He  knew  it  was  Re- 
becca Kerr,  and  this  meeting  did  not  appear  in  the 
least  accidental. 

She  was  dressed,  as  he  had  not  previously  seen  her, 
in  a  heavy  brown  coat,  a  thick  scarf  about  her  throat  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     187 

a  pretty  velvet  cap  which  hid  most  of  her  hair.  Her 
small  feet  were  well  shod  in  strong  boots,  and  she  came 
radiantly  down  the  wet  road.  A  look  of  surprise  sprang 
into  her  eyes  when  she  saw  him,  and  she  seemed  uncer- 
tain of  herself  as  they  stopped  to  speak. 

"Back  again?"  she  said,  not  without  some  inquisitive 
surprise  in  her  tones. 

"Yes,  another  holiday,"  he  said  quickly. 

"Nothing  wrong?"  she  queried. 

"Well,  well,  no;  but  the  college  has  closed  down  for 
the  period  of  the  war." 

"That  is  a  pity." 

He  laughed  a  queer,  excited  little  laugh,  in  which 
there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  mirth  or  meaning.  Then 
he  picked  himself  up  quickly. 

"You  won't  tell  anybody?" 

"What  about?" 

"This  that  I  have  told  you,  about  the  college." 

' '  Oh,  dear  no ! "  she  replied  very  quickly,  as  if  amazed 
and  annoyed  that  he  should  have  asked  her  to  respect  this 
little  piece  of  information  as  a  confidence.  And  she 
had  not  reckoned  on  meeting  him  at  all.  Besides  she 
had  not  spoken  so  many  words  to  him  since  the  morning 
after  the  concert. 

She  lifted  her  head  high  and  went  on  walking  be- 
tween the  muddy  puddles  on  the  way  to  the  valley  school. 

John  felt  somewhat  crushed  by  her  abruptness,  espe- 
cially after  what  he  had  told  her.  And  where  was  the 
fine  resolve  with  which  his  mother  had  hoped  to  infuse 
him  of  acting  a  brave  part  for  her  sake  before  the  people 
of  the  valley? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

MYLES  SHANNON  and  his  nephew  Ulick  sat  at 
breakfast  in  the  dining-room  of  the  big  house 
among  the  trees.  The  Irish  Times  of  the  previous  day 's 
date  was  crackling  in  the  elder  man's  hand. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  joining  the  Army,  Ulick?  It 
is  most  extraordinary,  the  number  of  ne'er-do-wells  who 
manage  to  get  commissions  just  now.  Why  I  think  there 
should  be  no  bother  at  all  if  you  tried.  With  your 
knowledge  I  fancy  you  could  get  into  the  R.A.M.C.  It 
is  evidently  infernally  easy.  I  suppose  your  conduct 
at  the  University  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  your 
chances  of  acceptance  or  rejection  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  not  at  all." 

"I  thought  not." 

"But  I  fancied,  uncle,  that  when  I  came  down  here 
from  Dublin  I  had  done  with  intending  myself  to  kill 
people.  That  is,  with  joining  any  combination  for  pur- 
poses of  slaughter." 

Myles  Shannon  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  paper  and 
smiled.  Evidently  he  did  not  appreciate  the  full,  grim 
point  of  the  joke,  but  he  rather  fancied  there  was  some- 
thing subtle  about  it.  and  it  was  in  that  quiet  and  vener- 
able tradition  of  humorous  things  his  training  had  led 
him  to  enjoy.  This  was  one  of  the  reasons  why,  even 
though  a  Catholic  and  a  moderate  Nationalist,  he  had 

188 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     189 

remained  a  devoted  reader  of  the  Irish  Times.  He  was 
conservative  even  in  his  humor. 

"But  in  Army  medical  work,  however,  there  is  al- 
ways the  compensating  chance  of  the  gentleman  with 
the  license  to  kill  getting  killed  himself,"  continued 
Ulick. 

His  lips  closed  now,  for  he  had  at  last  come  to  the 
end  of  his  joke.  The  conversation  lapsed,  and  Mr. 
Shannon  went  on  with  his  reading.  Ulick  had  been  to 
Garradrimna  on  the  previous  evening,  and  he  was 
acutely  conscious  of  many  defects  in  his  own  condition 
and  in  the  condition  of  the  world  about  him  this  morn- 
ing. His  thoughts  were  now  extending  with  all  the 
power  of  which  they  were  capable  to  his  uncle,  that 
silent,  intent  man,  whose  bald  head  stretched  expan- 
sively before  him. 

Myles  Shannon  was  a  singularly  fine  man,  and  in 
thinking  of  him  as  such  his  mind  began  to  fill  with 
imaginations  of  the  man  his  father  must  have  been. 
He  had  never  known  his  father  nor,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  could  he  boast  of  any  deep  acquaintance  with  his 
uncle,  yet  what  an  excellent,  restrained  type  of  man 
he  was  to  be  sure !  Another  in  the  same  position  as  his 
guardian  would  have  flogged  himself  into  a  fury  over 
the  mess  he  had  made  of  his  studies.  But  it  had  not 
been  so  with  his  uncle.  He  had  behaved  with  a  calm 
forbearance.  He  had  supplied  him  with  time  and  monej7, 
and  had  gone  even  so  far  as  to  look  kindly  upon  the 
affair  with  Rebecca  Kerr.  He  had  been  here  since  the 
beginning  of  the  year,  and  all  his  uncle  had  so  far  said 
to  him  by  way  of  asserting  his  authority  was  spoken 
very  quietly: 


190     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Now,  I'll  give  you  a  fair  time  to  think  over  things. 
I'll  give  you  till  the  end  of  the  summer  holidays,  till 
after  young  Brennan  comes  and  goes."  These  had  been 
his  uncle's  exact  words,  and  he  had  not  attempted  to 
question  them  or  to  qualify  them  at  the  time.  But  just 
now  they  were  running  through  his  brain  with  the  most 
curious  throbbing  insistence.  "Till  after  .young  Bren- 
nan comes  and  goes."  He  knew  that  his  uncle  had 
taken  an  unusual  fancy  to  John  Brennan  and  evidently 
wished  that  his  summer  holidays  should  be  spent  en- 
joyably.  But  it  was  a  long  time  until  summer,  and  he 
was  not  a  person  one  might  conscientiously  commend 
to  the  friendship  of  a  clerical  student.  He  very  often 
went  to  Garradrimna. 

Ulick  had  already  formed  some  impressions  of  his  fel- 
low man.  He  held  it  as  his  opinion  that  at  the  root  of 
an  action,  which  may  appear  extraordinary  because  of 
its  goodness,  is  always  an  amount  of  selfishness.  Yet, 
somehow,  as  he  carefully  considered  his  uncle  in  the 
meditative  spaces  of  the  breakfast  he  could  not  fit  him 
in  with  this  idea. 

As  he  went  on  with  his  thought  he  felt  that  it  was  the 
very  excess  of  his  uncle's  qualities  which  had  had  such 
a  curious  effect  upon  his  relations  with  Rebecca  Kerr. 
It  was  the  very  easiness  of  the  path  he  had  afforded 
to  love-making  which  now  made  it  so  difficult.  If  they 
had  been  forbidden  and  if  they  had  been  persecuted, 
their  early  affection  must  have  endured  more  strongly. 
The  opposition  of  the  valley  and  the  village  still  con- 
tinued, but  Ulick  considered  their  bearing  upon  him  now 
as  he  had  always  considered  it — with  contempt. 

There  had  been  a  good  deal  of  wild  affection  trans- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     191 

ported  into  their  snatched  meetings  during  the  past 
summer  in  Donegal.  After  Christmas,  too,  he  had  gone 
there  to  see  her,  and  then  had  happened  the  climax  of 
their  love-making  in  a  quiet  cottage  within  sound  of  the 
sea.  .  .  .  Both  had  moved  away  from  that  glowing  mo- 
ment forever  changed.  Neither  could  tell  of  the  great- 
ness of  the  shadow  that  had  fallen  between  them. 

He  remembered  all  her  tears  on  the  first  evening  he  had 
met  her  after  coming  back  to  the  valley.  There  had  been 
nothing  in  her  letters,  only  the  faintest  suggestion  of 
some  strained  feeling.  Then  had  come  this  unhappy 
meeting.  .  .  .  She  had  tortured  herself  into  the  belief 
that  it  was  she  who  was  responsible  for  his  failure. 

"With  all  the  time  you  have  wasted  coming  to  see  me 
I  have  destroyed  you.  When  you  should  have  been  at 
your  studies  I  was  taking  you  up  to  Donegal. ' ' 

As  he  listened  to  these  words  between  her  sobs,  there 
rushed  in  upon  him  full  realization  of  all  her  goodness 
and  the  contrast  of  two  pictures  her  words  had  called  to 
his  mind.  .  .  .  There  was  he  by  her  side,  her  head  upon 
his  shoulder  in  that  lonely  cottage  in  Donegal,  their 
young  lives  lighting  the  cold,  bare  place  around  them. 
.  .  .  And  then  the  other  picture  of  himself  bent  low  over 
his  dirty,  thumb-greased  books  in  that  abominable  street 
up  and  down  which  a  cart  was  always  lumbering.  All 
the  torture  of  this  driving  him  to  Doyle's  pub  at  the 
corner,  and  afterwards  along  some  squalid  street  of  ill- 
fame  with  a  few  more  drunken  medical  students. 

He  was  glad  to  be  with  her  again.  They  met  very 
often  during  his  first  month  at  his  uncle's  house,  in  dark 
spots  along  the  valley  road  and  The  Road  of  the  Dead. 
Then  he  began  to  notice  a  curious  reserve  springing  up 


192     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

between  them.  She  was  becoming  mysterious  while  at 
the  same  time  remaining  acutely  present  in  his  life. 

One  morning  she  had  asked  him  if  he  intended  to  re- 
main long  in  the  valley,  and  he  had  not  known  how  to 
reply  to  her.  Another  time  she  had  asked  him  if  he 
was  going  to  retire  altogether  from  the  study  of  medicine, 
and  with  what  did  he  intend  to  occupy  himself  now? 
And,  upon  a  certain  occasion,  she  had  almost  asked  him 
was  it  the  intention  of  his  uncle  to  leave  him  the  grand 
farm  and  the  lovely  house  among  the  trees? 

These  were  vexatious  questions  and  so  different  from 
any  part  of  the  talk  they  used  to  have  here  in  the  valley 
last  summer  or  at  the  cottage  in  Donegal.  Her  feeling 
of  surrender  in  his  presence  had  been  replaced  by  a 
sense  of  possession  which  seemed  the  death  of  all  that 
kindling  of  her  heart.  Then  it  had  happened  that,  "de- 
spite the  encouragement  of  his  uncle,  a  shadow  had  fallen 
upon  his  love-affair  with  Rebecca  Kerr.  .  .  .  He  was 
growing  tired  of  his  idle  existence  in  the  valley.  Very 
slowly  he  was  beginning  to  see  life  from  a  new  angle. 
He  was  disgusted  with  himself  and  with  the  mess  he 
had  made  of  things  in  Dublin.  He  could  not  say 
whether  it  was  her  talk  with  him  that  had  shamed  him 
into  thinking  about  it,  but  he  felt  again  like  making 
something  of  himself  away  from  this  mean  place.  Once 
or  twice  he  wondered  whether  it  was  because  he  wanted 
to  get  away  from  her.  Somehow  his  uncle  and  himself 
were  the  only  people  who  seemed  directly  concerned  in 
the  matter.  His  uncle  was  a  very  decent  man,  and  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  presume  on  his  hospitality  any 
longer. 

Mr.  Shannon  took  off  his  spectacles  and  laid  by  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     193 

Irish  Times.  There  was  an  intimate  bond  between  the 
man  and  his  paper.  He  always  considered  it  as  hitting 
off  his  own  opinions  to  a  nicety  upon  any  subject  under 
the  sun.  This  always  after  he  had  read  the  leaders  which 
dealt  with  these  subjects.  It  afforded  a  contribution  to 
his  thought  and  ideas  out  of  which  he  spoke  with  a 
surer  word. 

Old  Susan  Hennessy  came  into  the  room  with  some 
letters  that  Farrell  McGuinness  was  after  leaving.  She 
hobbled  in,  a  hunched,  decrepit  woman,  now  in  the  con- 
cluding stages  of  her  long  life  as  housekeeper  to  the 
Shannons,  and  put  the  letters  into  her  master's  hand. 
.  .  .  Then  she  lingered,  quite  unnecessarily,  about  the 
breakfast-table.  Her  toothless  gums  were  stripping  as 
words  began  to  struggle  into  her  mouth.  .  .  .  Mr.  Shan- 
non took  notice  of  her.  This  was  her  usual  behavior 
when  she  had  anything  of  uncommon  interest  to  say. 

"Well,  what  is  it  now?"  said  Mr.  Shannon,  not  with- 
out some  weariness  in  his  tones,  for  he  expected  only  to 
hear  some  poor  piece  of  local  gossip. 

"It's  how  Farrell  McGuinness  is  after  telling  me,  sir, 
that  John  Brennan  is  home." 

"Is  that  a  fact?" 

"And  Farrell  says  that  by  the  look's  on  the  outside  of 
a  certain  letter  that  came  to  Mrs.  Brennan  th 'other  day 
it  is  what  he  is  after  being  expelled." 

"Expelled.    Well,  well!" 

There  was  a  mixture  of  interest  and  anxiety  in  Mr. 
Shannon's  tones. 

"A  good  many  of  those  small  English  colleges  are  get- 
ting broken  up  and  the  students  drifting  into  the  Army, 
I  suppose  that's  the  reason ;  but  of  course  they'll  say  he's 


194     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

been  expelled,"  Ulick  ventured  as  old  Susan  slipped 
from  the  room  and  down  to  the  loneliness  of  the  kitchen, 
where  she  might  brood  to  her  heart's  content  over  this 
glad  piece  of  information,  for  she  was  one  who  well  knew 
the  story  of  John  Brennan's  mother  and  "poor  Misther 
Henery  Shannon." 

"Is  that  so?"  The  interest  of  Mr.  Shannon  was 
rapidly  mounting  towards  excitement. 

"A  case  like  that  is  rather  hard,"  said  Ulick. 

' '  Yes,  it  will  be  rather  hard  on  Mrs.  Brennan,  I  fancy, 
she  being  so  stuck-up  with  pride  in  him." 

He  could  just  barely  hide  his  feelings  of  exultation. 

"And  John  Brennan  is  not  a  bad  fellow." 

"I  daresay  he's  not." 

There  was  now  a  curious  note  of  impatience  in  the 
elder  man's  tones  as  if  he  wished,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  to  have  done  speaking  of  the  matter. 

' '  It  will  probably  mean  the  end  of  his  intention  for  the 
Church." 

' '  That  is  more  than  likely.  These  sudden  changes  have 
the  effect  of  throwing  a  shadow  over  many  a  young  fel- 
low's vocation." 

His  eyes  twinkled,  but  he  fingered  his  mustache  nerv- 
ously as  he  said  this. 

"Funny  to  think  of  the  two  of  us  getting  thrown  down 
together,  we  being  such  friends!" 

The  doubtful  humor  in  the  coincidence  had  appealed 
to  the  queer  kink  that  was  in  the  mind  of  Ulick,  and  it 
was  because  of  it  he  now  spoke.  It  was  the  merest  wan- 
tonness that  he  should  have  said  this  thing,  and  yet  it 
seemed  instantly  to  have  struck  some  hidden  chord  of 
deeper  thought  in  his  uncle's  mind.  When  Myles  Shan- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     195 

non  spoke  again  it  was  abruptly,  and  his  words  seemed 
to  spring  out  of  a  sudden  impulse: 

"You'd  better  think  over  that  matter  of  the  Army  I 
have  just  mentioned. ' ' 

It  was  the  first  time  his  uncle  Myles  had  spoken  to 
him  in  this  way,  and  now  that  the  rod  of  correction  had 
fallen  even  thus  lightly  he  did  not  like  it  at  all.  He  felt 
that  his  face  was  already  flushing.  .  .  .  And  into  his 
mind  was  burning  again  the  thought  of  how  he  had  made 
such  a  mess  of  things.  .  .  .  He  moved  towards  the  door, 
and  there  was  his  uncle's  voice  again  raised  as  if  in  the 
reproof  of  authority : 

"And  where  might  you  be  going  to-day?" 

"Down  the  valley  to  see  my  friend  John  Brennan, 
who  '11  be  surely  lonely  on  the  first  day  at  home, ' '  he  said, 
rather  hurriedly,  as  he  went  out  in  the  hallway  to  get 
his  overcoat. 

When  Myles  Shannon  was  left  alone  he  immediately 
drifted  into  deeper  thought  there  in  the  empty  room  with 
his  back  to  the  fire.  With  one  hand  he  clasped  his  long 
coat-tails,  and  with  the  other  nervously  twirled  his  long 
mustache.  He  was  thinking  rapidly,  and  his  thoughts 
were  so  strong  within  him  that  he  was  speaking  them 
aloud. 

"I  might  not  have  gone  so  far.  Don't  you  see  how  I 
might  have  waited  in  patience  and  allowed  the  hand  of 
Fate  to  adjust  things  ?  See  how  grandly  they  are  coming 
around.  .  .  .  And  now  maybe  I  have  gone  too  far. 
Maybe  I  have  helped  to  spoil  Ulick's  life  into  the  bar- 
gain. A.nd  then  there's  the  third  party,  this  girl,  Be- 
becca  Kerr?" 

He  looked  straight  out  before  him  now,  and  away  pye? 


196     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

the  remains  of  the  breakfast.  ...  He  crossed  to  the  win- 
dow and  gazed  for  a  while  over  the  wet  fields.  He  moved 
into  the  cold,  empty  parlor  and  gazed  from  its  window 
also  over  the  fields.  .  .  .  Then  he  turned  and  for  a  space 
remained  looking  steadfastly  at  the  bureau  which  held 
so  much  of  Her.  Quite  suddenly  he  crossed  over  and 
unlocked  it.  ...  Yes,  there,  with  the  other  dead  things, 
were  the  photograph  of  Helena  Cooper  and  the  letters 
she  had  written,  and  the  letter  John  Brennan's  mother 
had  written  about  him.  He  raised  his  eyes  from  the  few, 
poor  relics  and  they  gathered  into  their  depths  the  lone- 
liness of  the  parlor.  .  .  .  Here  was  the  picture  of  this 
girl,  who  was  young  and  lovely,  while  around  him,  surg- 
ing emptily  forever,  was  the  loneliness  of  his  house.  It 
was  Nan  Byrne  who  had  driven  him  to  this,  and  it  was 
Nan  Byrne  who  had  ruined  his  brother  Henry.  .  .  .  And 
yet  he  was  weakly  questioning  his  just  feelings  of  revenge 
against  this  woman,  but  for  whom  he  might  now  be  a 
happy  man.  He  might  have  laughter  in  this  house  and 
the  sound  of  children  at  play.  But  now  he  had  none  of 
these  things,  and  he  was  lonely.  .  .  .  He  looked  into  the 
over-mantel,  and  there  he  was,  an  empty  figure,  full  of  a 
strong  family  pride  that  really  stood  for  nothing,  a  polite 
survival  from  the  mild  romance  of  the  early  nineties  of 
the  last  century,  a  useless  thing  amid  his  flocks  and 
herds.  A  man  who  had  none  of  the  contentment  which 
comes  from  the  company  of  a  woman  or  her  children,  a 
mean  creature,  who,  during  visits  to  the  cattle-market, 
occasionally  wasted  his  manhood  in  dingy  adventure 
about  low  streets  in  Dublin.  One  who  remained  apart 
from  the  national  thought  of  his  own  country  reading 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     197 

queer  articles  in  the  Irish  Times  about  "resolute"  gov- 
ernment of  Ireland. 

His  head  lay  low  upon  his  chest  because  he  was  a 
man  mightily  oppressed  by  a  great  feeling  of  abasement. 

"In  the  desolation  of  her  heart  through  the  destruction 
of  her  son,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  not  without  a  cer- 
tain weariness,  as  he  moved  away  from  the  mirror. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

WHENEVER  a  person  from  the  valley  went  abroad 
now  to  fair  or  market  the  question  was  always 
asked: 

"  Is  it  a  fact  that  Ulick  Shannon  was  expelled  from 
the  University  in  Dublin  and  is  at  home?  And  is  it  a 
fact  that  John  Brennan  is  at  home  from  the  college  he 
was  at  too,  the  grand  college  in  England  whose  story  his 
mother  spread  far  and  wide  ? ' ' 

' '  That 's  quite  so,  ma  'am.    It 's  a  double  fact ! ' ' 

"Well,  well!" 

"And  is  it  a  fact  that  they  do  be  always  together,  go- 
ing by  back  ways  into  the  seven  publichouses  of  Garra- 
drimna?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  that's  true,  ma'am,  and  now  you  have 
the  whole  of  it.  Sure  it  was  in  the  same  seven  public- 
houses  that  the  pair  of  them  laid  the  foundations  of  their 
ruination  last  summer.  Sure,  do  ye  know  what  I'm 
going  to  tell  you?  They  couldn't  be  kept  out  of  them, 
and  that's  as  sure  as  you're  there!" 

Now  it  was  true  that  if  Ulick  had  gone  at  all  towards 
Garradrimna  it  was  through  very  excess  of  spirits,  and  it 
was  for  the  very  same  reason  that  he  had  enticed  John 
Brennan  to  go  with  him.  .  .  .  That  time  they  were  full 
of  hope  and  their  minds  were  held  by  their  thoughts  of 
Rebecca.  But  now,  somehow,  she  seemed  to  have  slipped 
198 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     199 

out  of  the  lives  of  both  of  them.  And  because  both  had 
chosen.  The  feeling  had  entered  into  Ulick's  heart. 
But  in  the  case  of  John  Brennan  it  was  not  so  certain. 
What  had  brought  him  out  upon  the  first  morning  of  his 
homecoming  to  take  a  look  at  her?  It  would  seem  that, 
through  the  sudden  quickening  of  his  mind  towards  study 
just  before  the  break-up  of  the  college,  he  should  have 
forgotten  her.  .  .  .  His  life  now  seemed  to  hang  in  the 
balance  shudderingly ;  a  breath  might  direct  it  anyway. 

He  felt  that  he  should  have  liked  to  make  some  sugges- 
tions of  his  own  concerning  his  future,  but  there  was  al- 
ways that  tired  look  of  love  in  his  mother's  eyes  to  frus- 
trate his  intention.  .  .  .  Often  he  would  go  into  the  sew- 
ing-room of  a  morning  and  she  would  say  so  sadly  as  she 
bent  over  her  machine — ' '  I  'm  contriving,  John ;  I  'm  con- 
triving!" He  had  come  to  the  years  of  manhood  and 
yet  he  must  needs  leave  every  initiative  in  her  hands 
since  she  would  have  it  so.  ...  Thus  was  he  driven 
from  the  house  at  many  a  time  of  the  day. 

He  went  to  morning  Mass  as  usual,  but  the  day  was 
long  and  dreary  after  that,  for  the  weather  was  wet  and 
the  coldness  of  winter  still  lay  heavy  over  the  fields. 
The  evenings  were  the  dreariest  as  he  sat  over  his  books 
in  his  room  and  listened  to  the  hum  of  his  mother's  ma- 
chine. Later  this  would  give  place  to  the  tumultuous 
business  of  his  father's  home-coming  from  Garradrimna. 
Sometimes  things  were  broken,  and  the  noise  would  de- 
stroy his  power  of  application.  Thus  it  was  that,  for 
the  most  part,  he  avoided  the  house  in  the  evenings.  At 
the  fall  of  dark  he  would  go  slipping  along  the  wet  road 
on  his  way  to  Garradrimna.  Where  the  way  from  Scar- 
den  joined  the  way  from  Tullahanogue  he  generally  met 


200     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Ulick  Shannon,  comfortably  top-coated,  bound  for  the 
same  place. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  surrounding  power  of  the  talk 
their  presence  in  the  valley  had  created  was  driving  them 
towards  those  scenes  in  which  that  talk  had  pictured 
them.  Through  the  dusk  people  would  smirk  at  them  as 
they  were  seen  going  the  road.  .  .  .  They  would  slip  into 
McDermott's  by  the  same  back  way  that  Ned  Brennan 
had  often  gone  to  Brannagan's.  Many  a  time  did  they 
pass  the  place  in  the  woods  where  John  had  beheld  the 
adventure  of  his  father  and  the  porter  last  summer.  .  .  . 
In  the  bottling  room  of  McDermott's  they  would  fancy 
they  were  unseen,  but  Shamesy  Golliher  or  Padna  Padna 
or  Thomas  James  would  be  always  cropping  up  most 
unaccountably  to  tell  the  tale  when  they  went  out  into  the 
bar  again  after  what  would  appear  the  most  accidental 
glance  into  the  bottling-room.  .  .  .  John  would  take  port 
wine  and  Ulick  whatever  drink  he  preferred.  But  even 
the  entertainment  of  themselves  after  this  fashion  did 
not  evoke  the  subtle  spell  of  last  summer.  There  was  no 
laughter,  no  stories,  even  of  a  questionable  kind,  when 
Josie  Guinan  came  to  answer  their  call.  Every  evening 
she  would  ask  the  question: 

"Well,  how  is  Eebecca,  Ulick?" 

This  gross  familiarity  irritated  him  greatly,  for  his 
decent  breeding  made  him  desire  that  she  should  keep  her 
distance.  Besides  he  did  not  want  any  one  to  remind  him 
of  Eebecca  just  now.  He  never  answered  this  question, 
nor  the  other  by  which  it  was  always  followed : 

"You  don't  see  her  very  often  now,  do  ye?  But  of 
course  the  woods  bees  wet  these  times." 

The  mere  mention  of  Rebecca's  name  in  this  filthy 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     201 

place  annoyed  John  Brennan,  who  thought  of  her  con- 
tinuously as  some  one  far  beyond  all  aspects  of  Garra- 
drimna. 

Yet  they  would  be  forever  coming  here  to  invite  this 
persecution.  Ulick  would  ever  and  again  retreat  into 
long  silences  that  were  painful  for  his  companion.  But 
John  found  some  solace  come  to  him  through  the  port 
wine.  So  much  was  this  the  case  that  he  began  to  have  a 
certain  hankering  after  spending  the  evening  in  this  way. 
When  the  night  had  fallen  thick  and  dark  over  Garra- 
drimna  they  would  come  out  of  McDermott's  and  spend 
long  hours  walking  up  and  down  the  valley  road.  Ulick 
would  occasionally  give  vent  to  outbursts  of  talk  upon 
impersonal  subjects — the  war  and  politics,  the  tragic 
trend  of  modern  literature.  John  always  listened  with 
interest.  He  never  wished  to  return  early  to  the  house, 
for  he  dreaded  the  afflicted  drone  of  his  mother  reading 
the  holy  books  to  his  father  by  the  kitchen  fire. 

During  those  brief  spells,  when  the  weather  brightened 
for  a  day  or  two,  he  often  took  walks  down  by  the  school 
and  towards  the  lake.  .  .  .  Always  he  felt,  through  power 
of  an  oppressive  realization,  that  the  eyes  of  Master  Don- 
nellan  were  upon  him  as  he  slipped  past  the  school.  .  .  . 
So  he  began  to  go  by  a  lane  which  did  not  take  him  be- 
fore the  disappointed  eyes  of  the  old  man. 

Going  this  way  one  day  he  came  upon  a  battered  school- 
reader  of  an  advanced  standard,  looking  so  pathetic  in  its 
final  desertion  by  its  owner,  for  there  is  nothing  so  lonely 
as  the  things  a  schoolboy  leaves  behind  him.  ...  He  be- 
gan to  remember  the  days  when  he,  too,  had  gone  to  the 
valley  school  and  there  instituted  the  great  promise 
which,  so  far,  had  not  come  to  fulfilment.  He  was  turn- 


202     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ing  over  the  leaves  when  he  came  on  a  selection  from 
Carlyle  's  French  Revolution — ' '  Thy  foot  to  light  on  soft- 
ness, thy  eye  on  splendor. ' '  He  pondered  it  as  he  stood 
by  the  water's  edge  and  until  it  connected  itself  with 
his  thought  of  Rebecca.  Thy  foot  to  light  on  softness, 
thy  eye  on  splendor. 

It  would  be  nearing  three  o'clock  now,  he  thought,  and 
Rebecca  must  soon  be  going  from  school.  He  might  see 
her  passing  along  between  the  muddy  puddles  on  The 
Road  of  the  Dead. 

He  had  fallen  down  before  her  again. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN  the  high,  gusty  evening  Tommy  Williams,  the  gom- 
been-man, was  standing  proudly  at  his  own  door  sur- 
veying the  street  of  Garradriinna.  It  was  his  custom  to 
appear  thus  at  the  close  of  the  day  in  contemplation  of 
his  great  possessions.  He  owned  four  houses  in  the 
village,  four  proud  buildings  which  advertised  his  worth 
before  the  beggars  of  the  parish — out  of  whom  he  had 
made  the  price  of  them.  But  he  was  distrustful  of  his 
customers  to  an  enormous  degree,  and  his  purpose  in 
standing  thus  at  his  own  door  was  not  altogether  one  of 
aimless  speculation  upon  his  own  spacious  importance  in 
Garradrimna.  He  was  watching  to  see  that  some  people 
going  down  the  valley  road  upon  ass-carts  did  not  at- 
tempt to  take  away  any  of  the  miscellaneous  merchandise 
exhibited  outside  the  door.  As  he  stood  against  the 
background  of  his  shop,  from  which  he  might  be  said 
to  have  derived  his  personality,  one  could  view  the  man 
in  his  true  proportions  beneath  his  hard,  high  hat.  His 
short  beard  was  beginning  to  show  tinges  of  gray,  and 
the  deepening  look  of  preoccupation  behind  his  glasses 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  becoming  daily  more  and 
more  like  John  Dillon. 

Father  O'Keeffe  came  by  and  said:  "Good-evening, 

Tommy!"     This  was  a  tribute  to  his  respectability  and 

worth.    He  was  the  great  man  of  the  village,  the  head 

and  front  of  everything.    Events  revolved  around  him. 

203 


204     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

He  would  have  you  know  that  he  was  somebody,  so  he 
was.  A  politician  after  the  fashion  in  the  Ireland  of  his 
time,  he  organized  and  spoke  at  public  meetings.  He 
always  wanted  to  be  saying  things  in  support  of  "The 
Cause."  "The  Cause"  was  to  him  a  kind  of  poetic 
ideal.  His  patriotic  imagination  had  intensified  its 
glory.  But  it  was  not  the  future  of  Ireland  he  yearned 
to  see  made  glorious.  He  looked  forward  only  to  the 
triumph  of  "The  Cause." 

Upon  the  death  of  his  father,  also  a  patriot,  the  little 
mean  huckstery  at  the  tail  end  of  the  village  street  had 
descended  to  him ;  and  although  he  had  risen  to  the  dig- 
nity and  proprietorship  of  four  houses,  this  establishment 
had  never  changed,  for,  among  the  many  ancient  super- 
stitions which  crowded  his  mind,  the  hoary  one  of  the 
existence  of  luck  where  there  is  muck  occupied  a  place  of 
prominence.  And  like  his  father  he  was  a  rebel — in  his 
mind.  The  more  notable  political  mountebanks  of  his 
time  were  all  men  who  had  fought  as  upon  a  field  of  bat- 
tle. Words  served  them  as  weapons,  and  words  were 
the  weapons  that  he  loved ;  he  might  have  died  if  he  were 
not  fighting,  and  to  him  talk  meant  battle.  He  used  to 
collect  all  the  supplemental  pictures  of  those  patriots 
from  The  Weekly  Freeman  and  paste  them  in  a  scrap- 
book  for  edification  of  his  eldest  son,  whom  he  desired 
to  be  some  day  a  unit  of  their  combination.  An  old- 
fashioned  print  of  Dan  0  'Connell  hung  side  by  side  with 
a  dauby  caricature  of  Robert  Emmet  in  the  old  porter- 
smelling  parlor  off  the  bar.  The  names  of  the  two  men 
were  linked  inseparably  with  one  of  his  famous  phrases — 
"The  undying  spirit  of  Irish  Nationality." 

Occasionally,  when  he  had  a  drunken  and  enthusiastic 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     205 

crowd  in  that  part  of  his  many-sided  establishment  which 
was  a  public  bar,  he  would  read  out  in  a  fine  loud  voice 
how  ''The  Cause"  was  progressing,  and,  having  learned 
by  heart  a  speech  of  John  Dillon's,  he  would  lash  it  out 
to  them  as  a  composition  of  his  own.  Whereupon  the 
doubly  excited  audience  would  shake  his  hand  as  one  man 
and  shout:  "More  power  there,  mister;  'tis  yourself  is 
the  true  Irishman,  me  sweet  fellow ! "  He  could  be  very 
funny  too  when  occasion  demanded,  and  tell  stories  of 
Father  Healy  of  Bray  at  pleasant  little  dinners  which 
took  place  in  the  upper  story  of  his  house  after  every 
political  meeting  held  in  Garradrimna.  He  never  missed 
the  opportunity  and  the  consequent  honor  of  singing 
"On  an  old  Irish  Hill  in  the  Morning"  at  every  one  of 
those  dinners.  He  was  always  warmly  applauded  by 
Father  0  'Keeffe,  who  invariably  occupied  the  chair.  He 
was  treasurer  of  the  fund,  out  of  which  he  was  paid  for 
supplying  all  this  entertainment. 

His  wife  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  of  the  "red- 
hat"  class.  He  had  been  compelled  to  marry  her.  .  .  . 
If  this  had  happened  to  a  poor  man  the  talk  would  have 
followed  him  to  the  grave.  But  they  were  afraid  to  talk 
censoriously  of  the  patriot  who  had  enveloped  all  of  them. 
He  practically  owned  them.  .  .  .  The  priest  could  not 
deliver  an  attack  upon  the  one  who  headed  his  lists  of 
Offerings  and  Easter  Dues  and  the  numerous  collections 
which  brought  in  the  decent  total  of  Father  0  'Keeffe 's 
income. 

To  Rebecca  Kerr  had  been  given  the  position  of  gov- 
erness to  the  Williams  household.  She  had  not  sought 
it,  but,  on  the  removal  of  the  two  boys,  Michael  Joseph 
and  Paddy,  from  the  care  of  Master  Donnellan  to  this 


206     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

more  genteel  way  of  imparting  knowledge  and  giving  cor- 
rection, which  savored  somewhat  of  the  splendor  ot  the 
Moores  of  Garradrimna  and  the  Houlihans  of  Clona- 
broney,  had  merely  accepted  it  as  part  of  the  system 
of  the  place.  She  had  fully  anticipated  such  possibilities 
upon  the  very  evening  of  her  arrival.  .  .  .  Besides  old 
Master  Donnellan  had  thanked  her  from  his  heart  for 
the  release  she  had  been  the  means  of  affording  him,  and 
she  liked  the  master  for  a  quiet,  kind  old  man  who  did 
not  prate  or  meddle.  So  far  she  had  made  little  im- 
provement in  either  of  the  boys.  But  Mrs.  Williams  was 
evidently  delighted  for  "our  governess,  Miss  Kerr,"  was 
the  one  person  she  ever  spoke  a  good  word  of  to  Father 
O'Keeffe. 

This  evening  Rebecca  was  in  the  parlor,  seated  just 
beneath  the  pictures  of  Dan  O'Connell  and  Robert  Em- 
met, wrestling  hard  with  the  boys.  All  at  once  her 
pupils  commanded  her  to  be  silent.  "Whist!"  they  said 
in  unison.  She  was  momentarily  amazed  into  eavesdrop- 
ping at  their  behest.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  Mrs.  Brennan,  sure  arid  I  couldn't 
think  of  the  like  at  all  at  all ! " 

"Well,  Mr.  Williams,  as  a  well-known  benefactor  of 
the  college  at  Ballinamult  and  a  good,  religious  man  to 
boot,  I  thought  that  mebbe  you  could  give  John  a  recom- 
mendation. It  would  be  grand  to  see  him  there  and  he 
working  himself  up  to  the  summit  of  his  ambition. 
There  would  be  a  great  reward  to  your  soul  for  doing  the 
like  of  that,  Mr.  Williams,  as  sure  as  you're  there." 

"And  now,  woman-a-dear,  what  about  my  own  sons, 
Michael  Joseph  and  Paddy?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  there's  no  fear  of  them,  Mr.  Williams!" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     207 

"But  I  could  not  think  of  jeopardizing  them  while  I'd 
be  doing  for  the  families  or  the  sons  of  the  stranger. ' ' 

"But  sure,  sir,  111  pay  you  at  any  rate  of  interest  you 
like  if  only  you  could  see  your  way  to  give  me  this  help. 
Enough  to  buy  a  bicycle  that  '11  take  him  over  to  Ballina- 
mult  every  day  and  your  grand  recommendation  to  the 
priests  that  '11  be  worth  gold.  I  '11  pay  you  every  penny 
I  can,  and  sure  the  poor  boy  will  repay  you  everything 
when  he  comes  into  the  position  that's  due  to  him." 

"Well,  I  don't  know.     I  don't  think  the  missus — " 

At  this  very  moment  Mrs.  Williams  came  into  the 
parlor  where  Rebecca  sat  with  them,  and  beamed  upon 
her  sons. 

' '  Oh,  my  poor  boys,  sure  it  is  killed  you  are  with  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  study.  Sure  it  is  what  you  'd  better 
go  out  into  the  fields  now  with  the  pony;  but  mind,  be 
careful !  You  poor  little  fellows ! ' ' 

Michael  Joseph  and  Paddy  at  once  snatched  up  their 
caps  and  rushed  for  the  door.  So  much  for  the  extent  of 
their  training  and  Rebecca's  control  of  them,  for  this  was 
a  daily  happening.  But  another  part  of  her  hour  of 
torture  at  the  gombeen-man's  house  had  yet  to  come. 
Of  late  Mrs.  Williams  had  made  of  her  a  kind  of  confi- 
dante in  the  small  concerns  of  her  household.  She  was 
the  sort  of  woman  who  must  needs  be  always  talking  to 
some  one  of  her  affairs.  Now  she  enlarged  upon  the 
immediate  story  of  how  Mrs.  Brennan  had  been  begging 
and  craving  of  Tommy  to  do  something  for  her  son  John, 
who  had  been  sent  home  from  the  place  he  was  in  Eng- 
land. "The  cheek  of  her,  mind  you,  that  Mrs.  Bren- 
nan!" emphasized  Mrs.  Williams. 

If  it  had  been  any  other  schoolmistress  or  girl  of  any 


208     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

kind  at  all  that  Mrs.  Williams  had  ever  known,  they 
would  have  acquiesced  in  this  statement  of  denunciation 
and  said:  "That's  a  sure  fact  for  you,  ma'am!"  or 
' '  Just  so ! "  But  this  had  never  been  Rebecca 's  way. 
She  merely  said:  "John  Brennan  is  a  very  nice  young 
fellow!" 

Although  Mrs.  Williams  was  surprised,  she  merely 
said:  "Is  that  so?  Sure  I  know  very  little  about  him 
only  to  see  him  pass  the  door.  They  say  he's  taken  the 
fashion  of  tippling  a  bit,  and  it's  to  McDermott's  he 
does  go,  d'ye  mind,  with  Ulick  Shannon,  and  not  to  this 
house.  But,  of  course,  it's  my  bold  Ulick  that's  spend- 
ing. Easy  for  him,  begad,  and  it  not  his  own." 

Rebecca  saw  the  dirty  meanness  that  stirred  in  this 
speech. 

"That's  what  they  say  and  it  is  surely  a  great  pity 
to  see  him  wasting  his  time  about  the  roads  of  the  valley. 
I  think  it  would  be  a  grand  piece  of  charity  on  the  part 
of  any  one  who  would  be  the  means  of  taking  him  away 
from  this  place.  If  only  he  could  be  afforded  some  little 
help.  'Tis  surely  not  his  fault  that  the  college  in  Eng- 
land broke  down,  and  although  his  mother  is,  I  believe, 
contriving  the  best  for  his  future,  sure  it  is  hard  for  her. 
She  is  only  a  poor  woman,  and  the  people  of  the  valley 
seem  queerly  set  against  her.  I  don 't  know  why.  They 
seem  to  hate  the  very  sight  of  her." 

"You  may  say  that  indeed,  and  it  is  the  good  reasons 
they  have — " 

Mrs.  Williams  suddenly  checked  herself,  for  there 
flashed  across  her  mind  a  chapter  of  her  own  story.  She 
had  been  one  of  the  lucky  ones.  .  .  .  Besides,  by  slow 
steps,  Rebecca  was  coming  to  have  some  power  over  her. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     209 

"Of  course  it  would  be  no  loss  to  Tommy  if  he  did 
give  this  help.  He'd  be  bound  to  get  the  interest  of  his 
money,  even  if  he  were  to  sell  her  out  of  house  and  home. 
He  knows  his  business,  and  he 's  not  against  it  himself,  I 
may  tell  you;  for  he  sees  a  return  in  many  a  way.  It 
was  myself  that  was  keeping  him  from  it  on  account  of 
the  boy's  mother.  But,  of  course,  if  you  think  it  would 
be  a  nice,  good  thing  to  do — " 

"It  would  be  a  good  thing,  and  a  very  good  thing, 
and  one  of  the  best  actions  you  could  put  for  luck 
before  your  own  sons. ' ' 

"Oh,  indeed,  there's  no  fear  of  them!  Is  it  Michael 
Joseph  or  Paddy?" 

"Of  course  not,  indeed,  nor  did  I  mean  anything  of 
the  kind.  I  only  said  it  to  soften  you,  Mrs.  Williams." 

"Well,  I  may  tell  you  it's  all  right,  Miss  Kerr.  Mrs. 
Brennan  is  out  there  in  the  shop,  and  she's  craving  from 
me  man.  .  .  .  It'll  be  all  right,  Miss  Kerr,  and  that's  a 
fact.  ...  I'll  make  it  all  right,  never  you  fear!" 

In  this  way  was  John  Brennan  again  led  back  into  the 
paths  of  the  Church.  Curious  that  it  should  have  been 
given  Rebecca  to  effect  the  change  in  his  condition — 
Rebecca,  whose  beauty,  snatching  at  his  spirit  always, 
had  drawn  his  mind  into  other  ways  of  contemplation. 
In  less  than  a  week,  through  the  powerful  ecclesiastical 
influence  of  Tommy  Williams,  the  gombeen-man,  he  was 
riding  daily  to  the  college  at  Ballinamult.  By  teaching 
outside  the  hours  allotted  for  his  own  study  he  was  earn- 
ing part  of  his  fees,  and,  as  a  further  example  of  his 
worth  to  the  community,  Tommy  Williams  was  paying 
the  other  portion,  although  as  a  purely  financial  specula- 
tion. ...  In  a  year  it  was  expected  he  would  win  one 


210     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

of  the  Diocesan  Scholarships  and  go  up  to  Maynooth. 
Mrs.  Brennan  knew  more  joy  than  had  ever  before  pos- 
sessed her.  Her  son  was  to  be  ordained  in  Ireland  after 
all,  and  maybe  given  a  curacy  in  his  own  diocese.  Who 
knew  but  he  might  yet  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  Father 
O'Keeffe  and  become  Parish  Priest  of  Garradrimna 
while  she  was  still  alive  here  in  this  little  house  in  the 
valley ! 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  meetings  of  Ulick  and  Rebecca  had  become  less 
and  less  frequent.  Sometimes  she  would  not  see 
him  for  days  at  a  stretch,  and  such  periods  would  appear 
as  desert  spaces.  She  would  be  driven  by  them  into  the 
life  of  the  valley,  where  no  echo  of  comfort  ever  came 
to  her.  Even  the  little  children  created  an  irritation 
with  their  bright  faces  continually  reminding  her  of  all 
the  prayers  they  had  said  for  her  intentions.  ...  It  was 
curious  that  she  never  asked  them  to  say  a  prayer  for 
her  intentions  now.  And  their  looks  would  seem  to  be 
beseeching  her  forever.  And  yet  she  could  not — she 
could  not  ask  them  now.  .  .  .  Each  distinct  phase  of  the 
day  seemed  to  hold  for  her  its  own  peculiar  tortures. 
These  seemed  to  have  reached  their  climax  and  very 
moment  of  ecstasy  on  the  days  succeeding  upon  one  an- 
other when  Monica  McKeon  came  in  at  the  recreation 
hour  to  take  her  luncheon  in  company  with  Mrs.  Wyse. 

Monica  would  be  certain  to  say  with  the  most  unfailing 
regularity  and,  in  fact,  with  exactly  the  same  intonation 
upon  all  occasions:  "I  wonder  when  that  Ulick  Shannon 
is  going  away?"  To  which  Mrs.  Wyse  would  reply  in 
a  tone  which  would  seem  to  have  comprehended  all 
knowledge:  "Ah,  sure,  he'll  never  go  far!"  Presently 
Monica  would  begin  to  let  fall  from  her  slyly  her  usual 
string  of  phrases:  "Wouldn't  you  be  inclined  to  say, 
now,  that  Ulick  Shannon  is  good-looking?"  Talking  of 
211 


212     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

some  other  one,  she  would  describe  him  as  being  "Just 
like  Ulick  Shannon,  don 't  you  know ! ' '  And  if  they  hap- 
pened to  be  discussing  the  passage  of  some  small  event 
it  would  invariably  circle  around  the  breathless  point  of 
interest — "And  who  do  you  think  was  there  only  Ulick 
Shannon?"  Then  from  where  she  sat  supping  her  tea 
out  of  a  saucerless  cup  Mrs.  Wyse  would  give  out  her 
full  opinion  of  Ulick  Shannon. 

"He's  the  quare  sort,  just  like  his  father.  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  seen  a  son  to  take  after  his  father  so 
closely.  And  he  was  what  you  might  call  a  quare  char- 
acter in  his  day.  It  was  said  that  a  girl  as  well  as 
lost  her  good  name  if  she  was  seen  talking  twice  in  suc- 
cession to  Henry  Shannon,  he  was  that  bad.  Like 
father,  like  son  is  surely  the  case  between  Henry  and 
tJlick  Shannon ! ' ' 

This  seemed  at  all  times  the  strangest  talk  for  Rebecca 
to  be  hearing.  ...  It  often  caused  her  to  shiver  even 
though  spring  was  well  on  its  way.  And  they  would 
never  let  it  out  of  their  minds;  they  would  never  let  it 
rest.  They  were  always  talking  at  her  about  Ulick 
Shannon,  for  they  seemed  to  know. 

But  no  one  knew  save  herself.  It  was  a  grand  secret. 
Not  even  Ulick  knew.  She  hugged  the  dear  possession 
of  her  knowledge  to  herself.  There  was  the  strangest 
excitement  upon  her  to  escape  from  school  in  the  eve- 
nings so  that  she  might  enjoy  her  secret  in  loneliness. 

Even  this  joy  had  been  dissipated  by  her  certainty  of 
meeting  John  Brennan  somewhere  upon  the  road  in  the 
near  vicinity  of  the  school.  .  .  .  Now,  as  she  thought  of 
it  upon  an  evening  a  few  days  after  she  had  spoken  to 
Mrs.  Williams  in  his  favor,  she  fancied  that  his  lonely 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     213 

admiration  for  her  must  have  been  growing  in  strength 
since  his  return.  .  .  .  There  had  always  been  a  sense  of 
sudden  relief  in  his  presence  after  the  torture  of  the  two 
women,  a  feeling  of  high  emancipation  like  the  rushing  in 
of  some  clean  wind.  .  .  .  Only  a  few  words  had  ever 
passed  between  them  on  those  occasions,  but  now  they 
were  to  her  throbbing  brain  of  blessed  and  sweet  mem- 
ory. And  there  had  always  been  the  same  look  upon  his 
face,  making  her  try  to  puzzle  out  in  what  possible  way 
he  could  look  upon  her.  Could  it  be  in  the  way  she  had 
looked  upon  him,  with  a  full  kindliness  working  into 
the  most  marvelous  ways  of  sympathy?  Yet  she  missed 
him  ever  so  much,  now  that  he  was  to  be  no  longer  seen 
upon  the  road. 

It  was  strange  enough,  too,  as  she  thought  of  it,  that 
although  the  reason  of  Mrs.  Williams  in  taking  a  fancy 
to  her  was  no  more  than  the  selfish  one  of  showing  her 
dislike  for  Master  Donnellan,  it  should  have  borne  good 
fruit  after  this  fashion.  Yet  a  certain  loneliness,  a  cer- 
tain feeling  of  empty  sadness  was  to  be  her  reward  be- 
cause she  had  done  a  good  thing.  ...  No  one  at  all  now 
to  take  her  mind  away  as  she  wandered  from  torture  to 
torture  in  the  afternoons.  .  .  .  On  one  of  the  first  eve- 
nings of  the  changed  condition  of  things  Mrs.  McGold- 
rick,  noticing  in  her  keen  mind  that  Rebecca  was  a  min- 
ute or  so  earlier  than  usual,  said,  after  the  manner  of 
one  proud  of  being  able  to  say  it : 

"Is  it  a  fact,  Miss  Kerr,  that  John  Brennan  bees  going 
as  a  kind  of  a  charity  teacher  or  something  to  the  college 
at  Ballinamult  ? " 

"Well,  if  it's  a  fact,  it  is  a  fact,"  said  Rebecca  in  a 
tired,  dull  voice  and  without  showing  any  interest  what- 


214.     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

soever.  But  even  this  attitude  did  not  baulk  the  ser- 
geant's wife,  for  she  hurried  on: 

"Ah,  God  help  his  innocent  wit,  but  sure  he'll  never 
be  a  priest,  he'll  never  be  a  priest!  "Pis  a  pity  of  his 
mother,  but  sure  she  could  hardly  expect  it  to  be  so,  for 
she  wasn't  a  good  woman,  they  tell  me,  and  she  ought 
to  know,  you  know,  that  she  could  hardly  expect  it  to 
be  so!" 

Rebecca  saw  at  once  that  her  landlady  was  in  one  of 
her  fits  of  garrulousness,  so  she  concluded  in  consequence 
that  there  would  not  be  much  pleasure  in  her  dinner  to- 
day. She  passed  it  untasted  and  went  upstairs  wearily. 
There  was  a  certain  grim  comfort  in  thinking  that  she 
had  left  Mrs.  McGoldrick  with  her  harangue  unfinished 
and  a  great  longing  upon  her  to  be  talking.  .  .  .  She 
flung  herself  upon  the  bed  in  the  still  untidied  room. 
She  was  weary  with  some  great,  immeasurable  weariness 
this  blessed  evening.  .  .  .  Her  corset  hurt  her,  and  she 
sat  up  again  to  take  it  off.  She  caught  sight  of  herself 
reflected  in  the  mirror  opposite.  .  .  .  How  worn  she 
looked !  Her  brows,  with  their  even  curves,  did  not  take 
from  the  desolation  that  had  fallen  upon  her  forehead, 
where  it  was  grown  harder  as  beneath  the  blows  of  some 
tyrannic  thought.  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  same  thought 
had  plowed  all  the  lines  which  were  beginning  to  ap- 
pear there  now.  ...  It  must  be  that  she  had  long  since 
entered  into  a  mood  of  mourning  for  the  things  she  had 
lost  in  the  valley. 

She  fell  to  remembering  the  first  evening  she  had 
come  to  it,  and  of  how  she  had  begun  to  play  with  her 
beauty  on  that  very  first  evening.  It  had  appeared  then 
as  the  only  toy  in  her  possession  in  this  place  of  dreary 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     215 

immensity.  And  now  it  seemed  to  have  run  through 
many  and  sudden  vicissitudes.  She  had  allowed  Ulick 
Shannon  to  play  with  it  too.  .  .  .  But  his  language  had 
been  so  sweet  when  he  had  praised  her  in  the  silent 
woods.  .  .  .  And  in  the  lonely  cottage  in  Donegal,  where 
he  had  gone  to  see  her  after  Christmas,  there  had  been 
abiding  joy,  while  outside  the  night  swept  wild  and  dark 
upon  the  cold,  gray  sea.  .  .  .  Here  there  came  sudden 
qualms  as  to  whether  she  had  helped  to  ruin  him  by 
taking  him  away  from  preparation  for  his  final  exam. 
But  there  was  such  an  urge  of  dear  remembrance  upon 
her  that  her  mind  sprang  quickly  back  again  to  all  the 
thoughts  they  had  had  between  them  then.  .  .  .  Back 
into  her  mind  too  were  thronging  the  exact  words  he  had 
used  upon  that  night  they  had  spent  together  in  the 
cottage. 

And  by  the  side  of  all  this,  was  it  not  queer  that  he 
came  so  seldom  to  see  her  now  although  he  lived  distant 
from  her  by  only  a  few  fields?  Even  when  he  came 
their  partings  were  so  abrupt,  after  a  little  period  of 
strained  conversation,  when  he  always  went  with  a  slight 
excuse  in  his  mouth  to  Garradrimna.  Yet  all  the  time 
she  longed  for  his  presence  by  her  side  with  an  even 
greater  longing  than  that  she  had  experienced  in  Done- 
gal. ...  It  was  also  painfully  notable  how  he  gave 
shifty  answers  to  her  every  question.  And  had  she  not 
a  good  right  to  be  asking  him  questions  now  ?  .  .  .  And 
surely  he  must  guess  by  this  time. 

She  threw  her  head  back  upon  the  pillow  once  more, 
and  once  more  she  was  weeping.  She  thought,  through 
the  mist  of  her  tears,  of  how  she  had  so  bitterly  wept 
upon  the  first  evening  of  her  coming  to  this  room.  But 


216     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

on  that  evening  also  she  had  prayed,  and  she  could  not 
pray  now.  Nor  could  she  sleep.  She  remained  there 
upon  the  bed,  inert  in  every  sense  save  for  her  empty 
stare  up  at  the  discolored  ceiling.  It  was  broken  only 
by  the  queer  smile  she  would  take  to  herself  ever  and 
again.  ...  At  last  she  began  to  count  upon  her  fingers. 
She  was  simply  counting  the  number  of  times  she  had 
seen  Ulick  since  his  return  to  his  uncle's  house. 

"Oh,  dear,  dear,  and  what  have  I  done  to  him?"  she 
muttered  incessantly,  biting  her  lips  occasionally  between 
her  words  as  if  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  desire  for  the  pain  he 
was  causing  her.  .  .  .  There  came  moments,  winged  and 
clean  like  shining  angels,  to  bring  her  comfort,  when  she 
wildly  fancied  it  was  the  very  loveliest  thing  to  endure 
great  pain  for  his  sake. 

But  the  powers  of  her  mind  for  any  wild  gladness  were 
being  gradually  annihilated  by  dark  thoughts  coming 
down  to  defeat  her  thoughts  of  beauty.  She  turned  from 
contemplation  of  the  ceiling  and  began  to  glance  around 
the  room  in  search  of  some  distraction.  In  one  corner 
she  saw  an  old  novelette  thrown  aside  in  its  gaudy  covers. 
The  reading  of  rubbish  was  Mrs.  McGoldrick 's  recreation 
when  she  was  not  sewing  or  nursing  the  baby. 

She  had  called  the  girls  after  heroines  of  passionate 
love-stories,  just  as  her  husband,  the  sergeant,  had  seen 
that  the  boys  were  called  after  famous  men  in  the  world 
of  the  police.  Thus  the  girls  bore  names  like  Euphemia 
McGoldrick  and  Clementina  McGoldrick,  while  the  boys 
bore  names  like  John  Ross  McGoldrick  and  Neville 
Chamberlain  McGoldrick.  The  girls,  although  they  were 
ugly  and  ill-mannered,  had  already  been  invested  with 
the  golden  lure  of  Romance,  and  the  boys  were  already 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     217 

policemen  although  they  were  still  far  distant  from  the 
age  when  they  could  put  on  a  belt  or  a  baton. 

Rebecca  began  to  snatch  at  paragraphs  here  and  there 
through  the  story,  which  was  entitled  The  Desecration  of 
the  Hearth.  There  was  one  passage  which  seemed  to 
hold  an  unaccountable  fascination  as  her  eyes  lingered 
over  it: 

"Then  suddenly,  and  without  a  minute's  warning, 
Lord  Archibald  Molyneux  dashed  the  poor,  ruined 
girl  from  him,  and  soon  she  was  struggling  for  life 
in  the  swirling  stream. 

"  '  Ah-a-ha!'  he  said  once  more,  hissing  out  his 
every  word  between  his  thin,  cruel  lips.  (That  will 
may  be  put  an  end  to  your  scandalous  allegations 
against  a  scion  of  the  noble  house  of  Molyneux.' 

"  'Mercy!  Pity!  Oh,  God!  The  Child!'  she 
wailed  piteously  as  she  felt  herself  being  caught  in 
the  maelstrom  of  the  current. 

"But  Lord  Archibald  Molyneux  merely  twirled 
his  dark,  handsome  mustache  with  his  white  hands, 
after  the  fashion  that  was  peculiar  to  him,  and 
waited  until  his  unfortunate  victim  had  disappeared 
completely  beneath  the  surface  of  the  water." 

Rebecca's  eyes  had  closed  over  the  passage,  and  she 
was  dozing  now,  but  only  fitfully.  ...  To  occupy  small 
instants  would  come  the  most  terrifying  dreams  in  long 
waves  of  horror  which  would  seem  to  take  great  spaces 
of  time  for  their  final  passage  from  her  mind.  Then 
there  would  flow  in  a  brief  space  of  respite,  but  only  as 
a  prelude  to  the  dread  recurrence  of  her  dreams  again. 


218     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

And  all  jumbled  together,  bits  of  wild  reality  which  were 
and  were  not  parts  of  her  experience  would  cause  her  to 
start  up  ever  and  anon. 

There  fell  a  knock  upon  the  door,  and  a  little  girl  came 
in  with  some  tea-things  on  a  tray.  She  called:  "Miss 
Kerr,  your  tea!"  and  when  Rebecca  woke  up  with  a 
terrible  start  it  appeared  as  if  she  had  not  slumbered 
at  all. 

"Oh,  is  that  yourself,  Euphemia?  I  declare  to  good- 
ness the  dusk  is  falling  outside.  I  must  have  been  sleep- 
ing." 

"Yes,  miss!" 

"You  are  late  in  coming  this  evening?" 

"Well,  wait  till  I  tell  you,  miss.  I  went  into  the  vil- 
lage for  some  things  for  my  mother,  and  what  d'ye  think 
but  when  I  was  coming  home  I  thought  I  saw  a  strange 
man  just  outside  the  ditch  opposite  the  door,  and  I  was 
afraid  for  to  pass,  so  I  was." 

"A  strange  man!    Is  that  a  fact?" 

"Well,  sure  then  I  thought,  miss,  it  might  be  Ulick 
Shannon,  but  I  may  tell  you  I  got  the  surprise  of  my  life 
when  I  found  it  was  only  John  Brennan,  and  he  stand- 
ing there  alone  by  himself  looking  up  at  your  window." 

Long  before  she  had  got  through  it,  with  many  lisps 
and  lapses,  Rebecca  was  wearied  by  the  triteness  of  the 
little  one's  statement,  so  well  copied  was  it  from  the 
model  of  her  mother's  gossipy  communication  of  the 
simplest  fact. 

But  what  could  John  Brennan  be  doing  there  so  near 
her  again?  This  was  the  thought  that  held  Rebecca 
as  she  went  on  with  an  attempt  to  take  her  tea. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

JOHN  BRENNAN  came  down  the  valley.  The  trees 
by  the  roadside  were  being  shaken  heavily  by  soft 
winds.  Yet,  for  all  the  kindness  of  May  that  lingered 
about  it,  there  seemed  to  be  some  shadow  hanging  over 
the  evening.  No  look  of  peace  or  pity  had  struggled  into 
the  squinting  windows.  .  .  .  Would  the  valley  ever  again 
put  on  the  smile  it  had  worn  last  summer?  That  time 
it  had  been  so  dearly  magnified.  At  leaving  it  there  had 
been  such  a  crush  of  feeling  in  his  breast. 

He  seemed  to  see  it  more  clearly  now.  There  was 
something  that  hurt  him  in  the  thought  of  how  he  was 
preparing  for  a  genteel  kind  of  life  while  his  father  re- 
mained a  common  sponger  around  the  seven  publichouses 
of  Garradrimna,  asking  people  to  stand  him  drinks  for 
the  love  of  God  like  Anthony  Shaughness.  He  could  not 
forget  that  the  valley  had  wrought  this  destruction  upon 
Ned  Brennan,  and  that  Ned  Brennan  was  his  father. 

This  thought  arose  out  of  a  definite  cause.  At  the  col- 
lege in  Ballinamult  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of 
Father  George  Considine,  who  had  already  begun  to 
exercise  an  influence  over  him.  This  priest  was  a  sim- 
ple, holy  man,  who  had  devoted  his  life  usefully,  remain- 
ing far  away  from  the  ways  of  pride.  Although  gom- 
been-men like  Tommy  Williams  had  some  influence  with 
those  who  controlled  the  college,  they  had  no  influence 
over  him.  He  was  in  curious  contrast  to  the  system 

219 


220     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

which  tied  him  to  this  place.  It  was  impossible  to  think 
that  his  ordination  had  represented  a  triumph  to  any 
one  at  all,  yet  he  had  been  far  ahead  of  his  contempo- 
raries and  while  yet  a  young  man  had  been  made  princi- 
pal of  this  college  in  Ballinamult.  His  name  had  gone 
out  into  the  world.  The  satisfaction  that  had  been  de- 
nied to  Master  Donnellan  was  his.  He  had  had  a  hand 
in  the  education  of  men  whose  names  were  now  notable 
in  many  a  walk  of  life.  And  yet,  to  see  him  moving 
about  the  grounds  of  the  college  in  his  faded  coat  with 
the  frayed  sleeves  and  shiny  collar,  no  man  would  think 
that  his  name,  the  name  of  "poor  Father  Considine," 
was  spoken  with  respect  in  distant  places. 

But  Mrs.  Brennan  did  not  approve  of  him.  On  the 
evening  of  John's  first  day  in  Ballinamult,  after  she  had 
made  every  other  possible  inquiry  she  said: 

"And  did  you  meet  Father  Considine?" 

' '  I  did  indeed,  mother ;  a  nice  man ! ' ' 

"Ah,  a  quare  ould  oddity!  Wouldn't  you  think  now 
that  he'd  have  a  little  pride  in  himself  and  dress  a  bit 
better,  and  he  such  a  very  learned  man?" 

"Maybe  that's  just  the  reason  why  he's  not  proud. 
The  saints  were  not  proud,  mother;  then  why  should 
he  be?" 

She  always  gave  a  deaf  ear  to  any  word  of  this  kind 
from  John,  for  her  ideal  was  Father  O'Keeffe,  with  his 
patent  leather  top-boots,  silver-mounted  whip  and  silk 
hat,  riding  to  hounds  with  the  Cromwellian  descendants 
of  the  district.  .  .  .  Here  was  where  Father  Considine 
stood  out  in  sharp  contrast,  for  he  was  in  spiritual  de- 
scent from  those  priests  who  had  died  with  the  people  in 
the  Penal  Days.  It  was  men  like  him  who  had  carried 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     221 

down  the  grandeur  of  Faith  and  Idealism  from  genera- 
tion to  generation.  One  felt  that  life  was  a  small  thing 
to  him  beyond  the  chance  it  gave  to  make  it  beautiful. 
He  had  written  a  little  book  of  poems  in  honor  of  Mary, 
the  Mother  of  God,  and  to  feel  that  it  had  brought  some 
comfort  to  many  a  troubled  one  and  to  know  that  he  had 
been  the  means  of  shaping  young  men's  lives  towards 
useful  ends  was  all  that  this  world  meant  to  him. 

John  Brennan  knew  very  well  that  if  he  became  a 
priest  it  was  in  the  steps  of  Father  Considine  he  would 
follow  rather  than  in  those  of  Father  O'Keeffe.  This 
he  felt  must  mean  the  frustration  of  half  his  mother's 
grand  desire,  but,  inevitable,  it  must  be  so,  for  it  was 
the  way  his  meditative  mind  would  lead  him.  Thus  was 
he  troubled  again. 

Father  Considine  had  spoken  to  him  of  Father 
O'Keeffe: 

"A  touch  of  the  farmer  about  that  man  don't  you 
think  ?  But  maybe  a  worthy  man  for  all  that ! ' ' 

Then  he  had  looked  long  into  the  young  man's  eyes 
and  said: 

"Be  humble,  my  son,  be  humble,  so  that  great  things 
may  be  done  unto  you!" 

John  had  pondered  these  words  as  he  cycled  home  that 
evening  past  the  rich  fields.  He  began  to  think  how  his 
friend  Ulick  would  have  put  all  his  thoughts  so  clearly. 
How  he  would  have  spoken  of  the  rank  green  grass  now 
rising  high  over  County  Meath  as  a  growth  that  had 
sprung  from  the  graves  of  men's  rotted  souls;  of  all 
the  hate  and  pride  that  had  come  out  of  their  hunger  for 
the  luscious  land;  of  how  Faith  and  Love  and  Beauty 
had  gone  forever  from  this  golden  vale  to  the  wild  places 


222     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

of  his  country,  where  there  was  a  letting-in  of  wind  and 
sun  and  sea.  ...  It  was  easy  to  connect  Father 
O'Keeffe's  pride  with  the  land.  Remembrance  of  the 
man's  appearance  was  sufficient.  It  was  not  so  easy  in 
the  case  of  his  mother.  But,  of  course,  John  had  no 
knowledge  of  how  she  had  set  her  heart  upon  Henry 
Shannon's  lovely  farm  in  the  days  gone  by. 

Hitherto  his  thoughts  of  his  future  condition  had  been 
bound  up  with  consideration  of  his  mother,  but  now 
there  had  come  this  realization  of  his  father.  It  was  not 
without  its  sadness  to  think  that  his  father  had  been  a 
stranger  to  him  always  and  that  he  should  now  behold 
him  stumbling  down  to  old  age  amid  the  degradation 
of  Garradrimna.  He  felt  curiously  desirous  of  doing 
something  for  him.  But  the  heavy  constraint  between 
them  still  existed  as  always.  He  was  unequal  to  the 
task  of  plucking  up  courage  to  speak  to  him.  This  eve- 
ning, too,  as  he  tried,  after  his  accustomed  fashion,  in  a 
vacant  moment  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  his  own  future,  he 
acutely  felt  the  impossibility  of  seeing  himself  as  a 
monument  of  pride.  .  .  .  Always  there  would  arise  be- 
fore his  mind  a  broken  column  in  the  middle  of  the 
valley. 

And  he  was  lonely.  He  had  not  seen  Ulick  Shannon 
or  Rebecca  since  he  had  begun  to  cycle  daily  to  Ballina- 
mult.  Often,  in  some  of  the  vacant  stretches  of  thought 
which  came  to  him  as  he  hurried  along,  he  pictured  the 
two  of  them  meeting  during  some  of  those  long,  sweet 
evenings  and  being  kind  to  one  another.  Despite  sud- 
den flashes  of  a  different  regard  that  would  come  sweep- 
ing his  thoughts  of  all  kinds,  he  loved  these  two  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     223 

was  glad  that  they  were  fond  of  one  another.  It  now 
seemed  surprising  that  he  had  ever  thought  so  deeply 
of  Rebecca  Kerr,  and  wished  to  meet  her  upon  the  road 
and  look  longingly  into  her  eyes.  All  this  while  going 
on  to  be  a  priest  seemed  far  from  him  now  that  he  had 
begun  to  be  influenced  by  Father  Considine. 

He  had  to  pass  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick  by 
the  way  he  was  going,  and  it  seemed  an  action  alto- 
gether outside  him  that  he  had  gone  into  an  adjacent 
field  and  gazed  for  quite  a  long  time  up  at  her  window. 
.  .  .  He  was  all  confusion  when  he  noticed  the  child 
of  the  McGoldricks  observing  him.  ...  He  drifted 
away,  his  cheeks  hot  and  a  little  sense  of  shame  dimming 
his  eyes.  .  .  .  He  took  to  the  road  again  and  at  once 
saw  Ulick  Shannon  coming  towards  him.  The  old,  in- 
sinuating smile  which  had  so  often  been  used  upon  his 
weak  points,  was  spread  over  the  face  of  his  friend. 

"And  at  last  you  have  succeeded  in  coming  to  see  her 
thus  far?" 

The  words  seemed  to  fall  out  of  Ulick 's  oblique  smile. 

"She?"  he  said  in  surprise. 

"Oh,  I  thought  it.  was  that  you  had  intentions  of  be- 
coming my  rival!" 

John  laughed  now,  for  this  was  the  old  Ulick  come 
back  again.  He  went  on  laughing  as  if  at  a  good  joke, 
and  the  two  students  went  together  down  the  road. 

"Don't  let  me  delay  you!"  John  said  abruptly. 

"Oh,  you're  not  preventing  me  in  any  way  at  all." 

"But  Rebecca?" 

"Even  the  austerities  of  Ballinamult  have  not  made 
you  forget  Rebecca?" 


224     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Hardly— I  shouldn't  like  to  think  that  I  had  been 
the  cause  of  keeping  you  from  her  even  for  a  short 
while." 

There  came  between  them  now  one  of  those  long  spells 
of  silence  which  seemed  essential  parts  of  their  friend- 
ship. 

"You're  in  a  queer  mood  this  evening?"  John  said 
at  last. 

"I  suppose  I  am,  and  that  there's  no  use  in  trying  to 
hide  it.  ...  D'ye  know  what  it  is,  Brennan?  We  two 
seem  to  have  changed  a  great  deal  since  last  summer. 
/  simply  can't  look  at  things  in  the  same  light-hearted 
way.  I  suppose  I  went  too  far,  and  that  I  must  be  pay- 
ing for  it  now.  But  there  are  just  a  few  things  I  have 
done  for  which  I  am  sorry — I'm  sorry  about  this  affair 
with  Rebecca  Kerr." 

John  was  listening  with  quiet  attention  to  the  remarks 
which  Ulick  was  letting  fall  from  him  disjointedly. 

' '  I  'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry  that  I  should  ever  have  come 
here  to  meet  her,  for  somehow  it  has  brought  me  to  this 
state  of  mind  and  not  to  any  happiness  at  all.  I'm 
doubtful,  too,  if  it  has  brought  any  happiness  to  her. ' ' 

"That's  strange,"  said  John,  "and  I  thought  you  two 
were  very  happy  in  your  friendship." 

"Happiness!"  jerked  out  the  other  in  a  full,  strong 
sneer.  "That's  a  funny  word  now,  and  a  funny  thing. 
Do  you  think  that  we  deserve  happiness  any  more  than 
those  we  see  working  around  us  in  the  valley?  Not  at 
all!  Rather  less  do  we  deserve.  Just  think  of  them 
giving  their  blood  and  sweat  so  crudely  in  mortal  com- 
bat with  the  fields !  And  what  does  it  avail  them  in  the 
end?  What  do  they  get  out  of  it  but  the  satisfaction 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     225 

of  a  few  unkind  thoughts  and  a  few  low  lies?  In  the 
mean  living  of  their  own  lives  they  represent  futile 
expeditions  in  quest  of  joy.  Yet  what  brings  the  great- 
est joy  it  is  possible  for  them  to  experience?  Why, 
the  fact  that  another 's  hope  of  happiness  has  been  finally 
desolated.  If  any  great  disaster  should  suddenly  come 
upon  one  or  other  of  the  three  of  us,  upon  you  or  me 
or  Rebecca  Kerr,  they  would  see  more  glory  in  the  ful- 
filment of  their  spite  than  in  the  harvest  promise  of  their 
fields.  And  yet  I  here  assert  that  these  deserve  to  be 
happy.  They  labor  in  the  hard  way  it  was  ordained  that 
man  should  labor  at  Adam's  fall,  and  they  attend  to 
their  religion.  They  pray  for  happiness,  and  this  is  the 
happiness  that  comes  to  them.  Some  must  be  defeated 
and  driven  down  from  the  hills  of  their  dreams  so  that 
the  other  ones,  the  deserving  and  the  pious,  may  be  given 
material  for  their  reward  of  joy.  That,  Brennan,  is  the 
only  happiness  that  ever  descends  upon  the  people  of 
the  valley.  It  may  be  said  that  they  get  their  reward 
in  this  life." 

Ulick  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of  eloquence  which 
always  came  to  him  after  a  visit  to  Garradrimna,  and 
when  a  very  torrent  of  words  might  be  expected  to  pour 
forth  from  him.  'John  Brennan  merely  lifted  his  eye- 
brows in  mild  surprise  and  said  nothing  as  the  other 
went  on: 

"Happiness  indeed.  What  have  I  ever  done  to  de- 
serve happiness  ?  I  have  not  worked  like  a  horse,  I  have 
not  prayed?" 

"I  was  not  thinking  of  any  broad  generalizations  of 
happiness.  I  was  only  thinking  of  happiness  in  your 
relation  to  Rebecca  Kerr." 


226     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Ulick  now  gave  a  sudden  turn  to  the  conversation: 

"Where  were  you  wandering  to  the  night?"  he  in- 
quired of  John  Brerman. 

"Oh,  nowhere  in  particular — just  down  the  road." 

"Well,  it  seems  strange  that  you  should  have  come 
this  way,  past  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick." 

It  appeared  as  if  Ulick  had  glimpsed  the  tender  spot 
upon  which  John  Brennan's  thoughts  were  working  and 
struck  it  with  the  sharp  point  of  his  words.  John  did 
not  reply,  but  it  could  be  seen  that  his  cheeks  were 
blushing  even  in  the  gloom  that  had  come  towards  them 
down  the  road. 

"I  hope  you  will  be  very  kind  to  her,  John,  when  I 
am  gone  from  here.  She's  very  nice,  and  this  is  the 
drear,  lonely  place  for  her  to  be.  I  expect  to  be  going 
away  pretty  soon." 

It  seemed  extraordinary  that  this  thing  should  be 
happening  now.  .  .  .  He  began  to  remember  how  he  had 
longed  for  Rebecca  last  summer,  and  how  his  poor  yearn- 
ing had  been  reduced  to  nothing  by  the  favor  with  which 
she  looked  upon  his  friend.  And  later  how  he  had 
turned  away  out  of  the  full  goodness  of  his  own  heart 
and  returned  again  through  power  of  a  fateful  ac- 
cident to  his  early  purpose.  And  now  how  the  good 
influence  of  Father  Considine  had  just  come  into  his  life 
to  lead  him  finally  into  the  way  for  which  he  had  been 
intended  by  his  mother  from  the  beginning. 

He  did  not  yet  fully  realize  that  this  quiet  and  casual 
meeting  which  had  been  effected  because  IHick  Shannon 
had  accidentally  come  around  this  way  from  Garra- 
drimna  represented  the  little  moment  which  stood  for 
the  turning-point  of  his  life.  But  it  had  certainly 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     227 

moved  into  being  along  definite  lines  of  dramatic  signif- 
icance. 

Presently  Ulick  mounted  a  stile  which  gave  upon  a 
path  leading  up  through  the  fields  of  his  uncle  Myles 
and  to  the  lonely  house  among  the  trees.  Then  it  was 
true  that  he  was  not  seeing  Rebecca  to-night.  ...  A 
great  gladness  seemed  to  have  rushed  in  upon  John 
Brennan  because  he  had  become  aware  of  this  thing. 
And  further,  Ulick  Shannon  was  going  away  from  the 
valley  and  Rebecca  remaining  here  to  be  lonely.  But 
he,  who  had  once  so  dearly  longed  for  her  company, 
would  be  coming  and  going  from  the  valley  daily,  and 
summer  was  upon  them  again.  .  .  .  Ulick  must  have 
bade  him  a  ' '  Good-night ! ' '  that  he  had  not  heard,  for 
already  he  could  see  him  disappearing  into  the  sea  of 
white  midst  which  would  seem  to  have  rolled  into  the 
valley  from  the  eternity  of  the  silent  places.  ...  He 
was  left  here  now  upon  this  lonely,  quiet  shore  while 
his  mind  had  turned  into  a  tumbling  sea. 

When  at  last  he  roused  himself  and  went  into  the 
kitchen  he  saw  that  his  mother  had  already  settled  her- 
self to  the  task  of  reading  a  religious  paper  to  his  father. 
.  .  .  The  elder  man  was  sitting  there  so  woebegone  by 
the  few  wet  sods  that  were  the  fire.  He  was  not  very 
drunk  this  evening,  and  the  usual  wild  glint  in  his  eyes 
was  replaced  by  the  look  of  one  who  is  having  thoughts 
of  final  dissolution.  .  .  .  John  experienced  a  little  shud- 
der with  the  thought  that  he  did  not  possess  any  desire 
to  speak  to  his  father  now. 

But  his  mother  had  broken  in  with  a  question : 

"Was  that  Ulick  Shannon  was  with  you  outside  just 
now?" 


228     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Yes,  mother,  it  was." 
"He  went  home  very  early,  didn't  he?" 
"I  suppose  it  is  rather  early  for  him  to  go  home." 
"I  think  'tis  very  seldom  he  bees  with  Rebecca  Kerr 
now,  whatever 's  the  reason,  whatever 's  the  reason." 

It  was  her  repetition  and  emphasis  of  the  final  words 
which  brought  about  the  outburst. 

Ned  Brennan  suddenly  flamed  up  and  snarled  out: 
"Look  ye  here,  Nan  Byrne,  that's  no  kind  of  talk  to 
be  giving  out  to  your  grand,  fine,  educated  young  fellow 
of  a  son,  and  he  be  going  on  to  be  a  priest.  That's  the 
quare,  suggestive  kind  of  talk.  But  sure  'tis  very  like 
you,  Nan  Byrne.  'Tis  very  like  you ! ' ' 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  just  been  on  the  point  of  beginning 
to  read  the  religious  paper,  and,  with  the  thought  of  all 
her  reading  surging  in  upon  her  in  one  crushing  mo- 
ment, she  felt  the  cutting  rebuff  most  keenly  and  showed 
her  confusion.  She  made  no  reply  as  John  went  up  to 
the  room  where  his  books  were.  .  .  .  Long  after,  as  he 
tried  to  recall  forgotten,  peaceful  thoughts,  he  could 
hear  his  father  speaking  out  of  the  heat  of  anger  in  the 
kitchen  below. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AFTER  she  had  failed  to  take  her  tea  Rebecca  walked 
the  valley  road  many  times,  passing  and  repassing 
their  usual  meeting  place.  But  no  sign  of  Ulick  did  she 
find.  She  peered  longingly  into  the  sea  of  white  fog, 
but  he  did  not  come.  .  .  .  What  in  the  world  was  hap- 
pening to  him  at  all?  Never  before  had  he  missed  this 
night  of  the  week.  .  .  .  She  did  not  care  to  return  so 
early,  for  she  feared  that  Mrs.  McGoldrick  might  come 
with  that  awful  look  of  scrutiny  she  detested.  Just  to 
pass  the  time  she  wandered  down  The  Road  of  the  Dead 
towards  the  lake.  To-night  it  seemed  so  lonely  set  there 
amid  the  sea  of  white. 

It  was  strange  to  think  that  this  place  could  ever  have 
had  a  fair  look  about  it  or  given  pleasure  to  any  person 
at  all.  Yet  it  was  here  that  John  Brennan  had  loved  to 
walk  and  dream.  She  wondered  how  it  was  with  him 
now.  She  began  to  think  of  the  liking  he  had  shown 
for  her.  Maybe  he  fancied  she  did  not  know  why  he 
happened  to  meet  her  so  often  upon  the  road.  But  well 
did  she  know— well.  And  to  think  that  he  had  come  to 
look  up  at  her  window  this  evening. 

Yet  even  now  she  was  fearful  of  acknowledging  these 
things  to  herself.  It  appeared  as  a  double  sacrilege. 
It  was  an  attack  upon  her  love  for  Ulick  and  it  ques- 
tioned the  noble  intention  of  Mrs.  Brennan  in  devoting 
her  son  to  God.  But  all  chance  that  it  might  ever  come 

229 


230     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

to  anything  was  now  over.  The  ending  had  been  ef- 
fected by  herself  in  the  parlor  of  Tommy  Williams,  the 
gombeen-man,  and  Mrs.  Brennan  might  never  be  able 
to  guess  the  hand  she  had  had  in  it.  It  was  a  thing 
upon  which  she  might  well  pride  herself  if  there  grew 
in  her  the  roots  of  pride.  But  she  was  not  of  that  sort. 
And  now  she  was  in  no  frame  of  delight  at  all  for  the 
thought  of  him  had  united  her  unto  the  thought  of  Ulick, 
and  Ulick  had  not  come  to  her  this  evening.  .  .  .  She 
felt  herself  growing  cold  in  the  enveloping  mist.  The 
fir  trees  were  like  tall  ghosts  in  the  surrounding  gloom. 
.  .  .  But  immediately  the  lake  had  lost  its  aspect  of 
terror  when  she  remembered  what  she  had  done  might 
have  averted  the  possibility  of  having  John  Brennan 
ever  again  to  wander  lonely.  .  .  .  And  yes,  in  spite  of 
any  comforting  thought,  the  place  would  continue  to 
fill  her  with  a  nameless  dread.  She  was  shivering  and 
expectant. 

Suddenly  a  big  pike  made  a  splash  among  the  reeds 
and  Rebecca  gave  a  loud,  wild  cry.  It  rang  all  down 
the  lonely  aisle  of  the  fir-trees  and  united  its  sound  with 
that  of  a  lone  bird  crying  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake. 
Then  it  died  upon  the  banks  of  mist  up  against  the 
silent  hills. 

For  a  few  moments  its  source  seemed  to  flutter  and 
bubble  within  her  breast,  and  then  it  ended  in  a  long, 
sobbing  question  to  herself — Why  had  she  cried  out  at 
all?  She  might  have  known  it  was  only  a  fish  or  some 
such  harmless  thing.  And  any  one  within  reasonable 
distance  could  have  heard  the  cry  and  thought  it  was 
the  signal  of  some  terrible  thing  that  had  happened  here 
by  the  lakeside.  It  was  not  so  far  distant  from  two 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     231 

roads,  and  who  knew  but  some  one  had  heard?  Yet 
she  could  hardly  fancy  herself  behaving  in  this  way 
if  she  had  not  possessed  an  idea  that  it  was  a  lonely 
place  and  seldom  that  any  one  went  by  in  the  night- 
time. 

But  she  hurried  away  from  the  feeling  of  terror  she 
had  caused  to  fill  the  place  and  back  towards  the  house 
of  Sergeant  McGoldrick.  As  quickly  as  possible  she 
got  to  bed.  Here  seemed  a  little  comfort.  She  re- 
membered how  this  had  been  her  place  of  refuge  as  a 
child,  how  she  felt  safe  from  all  ghosts  and  goblins  once 
her  head  was  hidden  beneath  the  clothes.  And  the  in- 
stinct had  survived  into  womanhood. 

Again  a  series  of  those  fitful,  half  sleeping  and  wak- 
ing conditions  began  to  pass  over  her.  Side  by  side 
with  the  most  dreadful  feelings  of  impending  doom  came 
thronging  memories  of  glad  phases  of  life  through  which 
she  had  passed.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  this  life  of  hers 
was  now  narrowing  towards  this  end.  Were  the  valley 
and  its  people  to  behold  her  final  disaster?  Was  it  to  be 
that  way  with  her? 

She  had  intended  to  tell  Ulick  if  he  had  come  to  her 
this  evening,  but  he  had  not  come,  and  what  was  she 
to  do  now?  In  the  slough  of  her  torment  she  could 
not  think  of  the  right  thing.  .  .  .  Maybe  if  she  wrote 
an  angry  letter  upbraiding  him.  .  .  .  But  how  could 
she  write  an  angry  letter  to  him  ?  Yet  she  must  let 
him  know,  and  immediately — when  the  dawn  had  broken 
into  the  room  she  would  write.  For  there  was  no  use 
in  thinking  of  sleeping.  She  could  not  sleep.  Yes, 
when  the  dawn  had  broken  into  the  room  she  would 
write  surely.  But  not  an  angry  letter.  .  .  .  Very 


232     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

slowly  she  began  to  notice  the  corners  of  the  room 
appearing  in  the  new  light  before  her  wide  open  eyes. 
And  to  feel  that  this  was  the  place  she  had  so  fiercely 
hated  from  the  first  moment  of  setting  foot  in  it,  and 
that  it  was  now  about  to  see  her  write  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  shame.  .  .  .  The  dawn  was  a  great  while  in 
breaking.  ...  If  he  did  not — well  then,  what  could  her 
future  life  hope  to  be?  She  began  to  grow  strangely 
dizzy  as  she  fell  to  thinking  of  it.  Dizzy  and  fearful 
as  she  drew  near  in  mind  to  that  very  great  abyss. 

The  leaping-up  of  the  day  did  not  fill  her  with  any  of 
its  gradual  delight.  .  .  .  She  rose  with  a  weariness  numb- 
ing her  limbs.  The  putting-on  of  her  few  clothes  was  an 
immense  task.  .  .  .  She  went  to  the  table  upon  which  she 
had  written  all  those  letters  to  her  school-companions 
which  described  that  "there  was  nothing  like  a  girl- 
friend." She  pulled  towards  her,  with  a  small,  trem- 
bling hand,  the  box  of  Ancient  Irish  Vellum,  upon  which 
her  special  letters  were  always  written.  Her  mind  had 
focussed  itself  to  such  small  compass  that  this  letter 
seemed  more  important  than  any  that  had  ever  before 
been  written  in  this  world. 

But  for  a  long  time  she  could  not  begin.  She  did  not 
know  by  what  term  of  endearment  to  address  him  now. 
.  .  .  They  had  been  so  particularly  intimate.  .  .  .  And 
then  it  was  so  hard  to  describe  her  condition  to  him  in 
poor  words  of  writing  with  pen  and  ink  upon  paper.  If 
only  he  had  come  to  her  last  night  it  might  have  been  a 
task  of  far  less  difficulty.  A  few  sobs,  a  gathering  of 
her  little  troubled  body  unto  him,  and  a  beseeching 
look  up  into  his  face.  .  .  .  But  it  was  so  hard  to  put 
any  single  feeling  into  any  separate  sentence. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     233 

After  hours,  during  which  the  sun  had  been  mounting 
high  and  bright,  she  had  the  letter  finished  at  last  and 
was  reading  it  over.  Some  sentences  like  the  following 
leaped  out  before  her  eyes  here  within  this  sickly -looking 
room — Whatever  was  the  matter  with  him  that  he  could 
not  come  to  her?  Surely  he  was  not  so  blind,  and  he 
with  his  medical  knowledge.  He  must  know  what  was 
the  matter  with  her,  and  that  this  was  scarcely  the  time 
to  be  leaving  her  alone.  His  uncle,  Myles  Shannon, 
was  a  very  rich  man,  and  did  he  not  remember  how 
often  he  had  told  her  how  his  uncle  looked  with  favor 
upon  her?  Here  she  included  the  very  words  in  which 
Ulick  had  many  a  time  described  his  uncle's  opinion 
of  her— "I  like  that  little  schoolmistress,  Rebecca  Kerr!" 
"It  was  all  so  grand,  Ulick,  our  love  and  meetings; 
but  here  comes  the  paying  of  the  penalty,  and  surely  you 
will  not  leave  poor  little  me  to  pay  it  in  full.  You  have 
enjoyed  me,  have  you  not,  Ulick?"  She  was  more 
immediately  personal  now,  and  this  was  exactly  how 
the  sentences  continued:  "You  know  very  well  what 
this  will  mean  to  me.  I'll  have  to  go  away  from  here, 
and  where,  I  ask  you,  can  I  go  ?  Not  back  to  my  father 's 
house  surely,  nor  to  my  aunt's  little  cottage  in  Donegal. 
...  I  have  no  money.  The  poor  salary  I  earn  here 
is  barely  able  to  buy  me  a  little  food  and  clothing  and 
keep  a  roof  over  my  head.  Did  I  not  often  tell  you 
that  when  you  were  away  from  me  there  were  times 
when  I  could  hardly  afford  the  price  of  stamps?  If 
it  should  happen  that  this  thing  become  public  while 
I  am  yet  here  I  could  never  get  another  day's  teaching, 
for  Father  O'Keeffe  would  warn  every  manager  in 
Ireland  against  engaging  me.  But  surely,  darling,  you 


234     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

will  not  allow  things  to  go  so  far.  .  .  .  You  will  please 
come  down  to  see  me  at  5.30  this  evening.  You  will 
find  me  at  the  old  place  upon  The  Road  of  the  Dead. 
Don't  you  remember  that  it  was  there  we  had  our  first 
talk,  Ulick?" 

Great  as  the  torture  of  writing  it  had  been,  the  torture 
of  reading  it  was  till  greater.  Some  of  the  lines  seemed 
to  lash  out  and  strike  her  and  to  fill  her  eyes  with  tears, 
and  there  were  some  that  seemed  so  hard  upon  him  that 
she  struck  them  out,  not  wishing,  as  ever,  to  hurt  her 
dearest  Ulick  at  all.  At  one  moment  she  felt  a  curious 
desire  to  tear  it  into  pieces  and  let  her  fate  come  to  her 
as  it  had  been  ordained  from  the  beginning.  .  .  .  But 
there  was  little  Euphemia  McGoldrick  knocking  at  the 
door  to  be  allowed  to  enter  with  the  breakfast.  Who 
would  ever  imagine  that  it  was  so  late? 

She  had  written  a  great  deal.  Why  it  filled  pages  and 
pages.  She  hurriedly  thrust  it  into  a  large  envelope  that 
she  had  bought  for  the  purpose  of  sending  a  card  of 
greeting  to  John  Brennan  at  Christmas,  thinking  better 
of  it  only  at  the  last  moment.  It  was  useful  now,  for 
the  many  sheets  were  bulky. 

"The  breakfast,  miss!"  announced  Euphemia  as  she 
left  the  room. 

This  was  the  third  meal  in  twenty-four  hours  that 
Rebecca  could  make  no  attempt  to  take,  but,  to  avert 
suspicion,  she  wrapped  up  the  sliced  and  buttered  bread 
in  a  few  leaves  from  the  novelette  from  which  she  had 
read  those  desperate  passages  on  the  previous  evening. 
The  tea  she  threw  out  into  the  garden.  It  fell  in  a  shin- 
ing shower  down  over  the  bright  green  vegetables.  .  .  . 
She  put  on  her  dust-coat  and,  stuffing  the  letter  to  Ulick 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     235 

into  one  pocket  and  her  uneaten  breakfast  by  way  of 
a  luncheon  she  would  not  eat  into  the  other,  hurried 
out  of  doors  and  up  the  road,  for  this  morning  she  had 
important  business  in  the  village  before  going  on  to  the 
school. 

Mrs.  McGoldrick  was  set  near  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
holding  Euphemia  and  Clementina  by  the  hand,  all 
three  in  action  there  to  behold  the  exit  of  Rebecca. 
This  was  a  morning  custom  and  something  in  the  nature 
of  a  rite.  It  was  the  last  clout  of  torture  always  inflicted 
by  Mrs.  McGoldrick. 

Rebecca  went  on  into  Garradrimna.  The  village  street 
was  deserted  save  by  Thomas  James,  who  held  solitary 
occupation.  He  was  posting  the  bills  for  a  circus  at  the 
market  square.  She  was  excited  as  she  went  over  to 
speak  to  him  and  did  not  notice  the  eyes  of  the  bespec- 
tacled postmistress  that  were  trained  upon  her  from  the 
office  window  with  the  relentlessness  of  howitzers.  She 
asked  Thomas  James  would  he  take  a  letter  from  her 
to  Mr.  Ulick  Shannon. 

' '  Oh  yes,  miss ;  0  Lord,  yes ! ' ' 

She  slipped  the  letter  into  his  hand  when  she  thought 
that  no  one  was  looking.  She  had  adopted  this  mode  of 
caution  in  preference  to  sending  it  through  the  Post 
Office.  She  was  evidently  anxious  that  it  should  be 
delivered  quickly  and  unread  by  any  other  person. 

' '  0  Lord,  yes,  miss ;  just  as  soon  as  I  have  an  auction 
bill  posted  after  this.  You  know,  miss,  that  Mickeen 
Connellan,  the  auctioneer,  is  one  of  my  best  patrons. 
He  doesn't  pay  as  well  as  the  circus  people,  but  he 
pays  oftener." 

That  was  in  the  nature  of  a  very  broad  hint,  but 


236     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Rebecca  had  anticipated  it  and  had  the  shilling  already 
prepared  and  ready  to  slip  into  his  other  hand. 

"Thanks,  miss!" 

With  remarkable  alacrity  Thomas  James  had  ' '  downed 
tools"  and  disappeared  into  Brannagan's.  Rebecca 
could  hear  the  swish  of  his  pint  as  she  went  by  the  door 
after  having  remained  a  few  moments  looking  at  the 
lurid  circus-bills.  Inside,  Mrs.  Brannagan,  the  pub- 
lican and  victualler's  wife,  took  notice  that  he  possessed 
the  air  of  a  man  bent  upon  business. 

"Ah,  it's  how  I'm  going  to  do  a  little  message  for  the 
assistant  schoolmistress,"  he  said,  taking  his  matutinal 
pinch  of  salt,  for  this  was  his  first  pint  and  one  could 
never  tell  what  might  happen. 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Aye,  indeed;  a  letter  to  young  Shannon." 

"Well  now?  And  why  for  wouldn't  it  do  to  send  it 
by  the  post?" 

"Ah,  mebbe  that  way  wouldn't  be  grand  enough  for 
her.  Mebbe  it  is  what  it  would  be  too  chape — a  penny, 
you  know,  for  the  stamp,  and  this  costs  a  shilling  for 
the  porter.  Give  us  another  volume  of  this,  Mrs.  Bran- 
nagan, if  you  please  ?  Ha-ha-ha ! "  He  laughed  loudly, 
but  without  any  mirth,  at  his  own  joke  and  the  peculiar 
blend  of  subtlety  by  which  he  had  marked  it. 

Mrs.  Brannagan  was  all  anxiety  and  excitement  about 
the  letter. 

"Well  now,  just  imagine!"  she  said  to  herself  about 
forty  times  as  she  filled  the  second  pint  for  Thomas 
James.  Then  she  rose  up  from  her  bent  posture  at  the 
half  barrel  and,  placing  the  drink  before  him  on  the 
bar,  said: 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     287 

''I  wonder  what  would  be  in  that  letter.  Let  uie 
see?" 

"Oh,  'tis  only  a  letter  in  a  big  envelope.  Aren't  you 
the  inquisitive  woman  now,  Mrs.  Brannagan?" 

"What '11  you  have,  Thomas?" 

"Ah,  another  pint,  Mrs.  Brannagan,  thanks!" 

His  second  drink  had  been  despatched  with  his  own 
celebrated  speed. 

Mrs.  Brannagan  was  a  notably  hard  woman,  and  he 
could  not  let  the  opportunity  of  having  her  stand  him  a 
drink  go  by.  She  was  the  hardest  woman  in  Garra- 
drimna.  Her  childlessness  had  made  her  so.  She  was 
beginning  to  grow  stale  and  withered,  and  anything  in 
the  nature  of  love  and  marriage,  with  their  possible 
results,  was  to  her  a  constant  source  of  affliction  and 
annoyance. 

Her  heart  was  now  bounding  within  her  breast  in 
curiosity. 

"Drink  that  quick,  Thomas,  and  have  another  before 
the  boss  comes  down."  But  there  was  no  need  to  com- 
mand him.  It  had  already  disappeared.  .  .  .  The 
fourth  pint  had  found  its  way  to  his  lips.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  grow  mellow  now  and  to  lose  his  cross-sickness 
of  the  morning. 

"Will  ye  let  me  see  the  letter?" 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Brannagan.     0  Lord,  yes!" 

He  handed  it  across  the  counter. 

"Such  a  quare  letter?  Oh,  I  hear  the  boss  coming  in 
across  the  yard."  .  .  .  She  had  taken  the  empty  glass 
from  before  Thomas  James,  and  again  was  it  filled.  .  .  . 
Her  husband  stood  before  her.  And  this  was  the  mo- 
ment she  had  worked  up  to  so  well. 


£38     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"I'll  hand  it  back  to  you  when  he  goes  out,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"All  right,  ma'am!" 

Thomas  James  and  Mr.  Brannagan  fell  into  a  chat 
while  she  went  towards  the  kitchen.  She  took  the  letter 
from  her  flat  bosom,  where  she  had  hastily  thrust  it  and 
looked  at  it  from  every  possible  angle.  It  seemed  to 
possess  a  compelling  attraction.  But  she  could  not  open 
it  here.  She  would  run  across  to  her  friend  the  post- 
mistress, who  had  every  appliance  for  an  operation  of 
the  kind.  Besides  she  was  the  person  who  had  first 
right  to  open  it.  ...  Soon  the  bespectacled  maid  and  the 
barren  woman  were  deep  in  examination  of  Rebecca 
Kerr's  letter  to  Ulick  Shannon.  Into  their  minds  was 
beginning  to  leap  a  terrible  joy  as  they  read  the  lines 
it  had  cost  Kebecca  immense  torture  to  write. 

"This  is  great,  this  is  great!"  said  the  ancient  post- 
mistress, clicking  her  tongue  continually  in  satisfaction. 
* '  The  cheek  of  her,  mind  you,  not  to  send  it  by  the  public 
post  like  another.  But  I  knew  well  there  was  something 
quare  when  I  saw  her  calloguing  with  Thomas  James  at 
the  market  square." 

"Wasn't  she  the  sly,  hateful,  little  thing.  Why  you'd 
never  have  thought  it  of  her?" 

"A  grand  person  indeed  to  have  in  charge  of  little, 
innocent  girls!" 

"Indeed  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  a  child  if  I  thought  it 
was  to  a  purty  thing  like  that  she'd  be  sent  to  school!" 

"Nor  me,"  said  the  old  lady,  from  whom  the  promise 
of  motherhood  had  departed  for  many  a  long  year. 

They  shook  in  righteous  anger  and  strong  detestation 
of  the  sin  of  Rebecca  Kerr,  and  together  they  held 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     239 

council  as  to  what  might  be  the  best  thing  to  do  ?  They 
closed  the  letter,  and  Mrs.  Brannagan  again  stuck  it  into 
her  bosom.  .  .  .  What  should  they  do?  The  children 
must  be  saved  from  contamination  anyhow.  ...  An 
approach  to  solution  of  the  difficulty  immediately  pre- 
sented itself,  for  there  was  Mrs.  Wyse  herself  just  pass- 
ing down  the  street  with  her  ass-load  of  children.  Mrs. 
Brannagan  rushed  out  of  the  office  and  called: 

"Mrs.  Wyse,  I  want  to  see  you  in  private  for  just  a 
minute ! ' ' 

The  schoolmistress  bent  over  the  back  of  the  trap,  and 
they  whispered  for  several  minutes.  At  last,  out  of  her 
shocked  condition,  Mrs.  Wyse  was  driven  to  exclaim: 

"Well  now,  isn't  that  the  limit?" 

It  seemed  an  affront  to  her  authority  that  another 
should  have  first  discovered  it,  so  she  was  anxious  to 
immediately  recover  her  lost  position  of  superiority. 

"Sure  I  was  having  my  suspicions  of  her  since  ever  she 
come  back  from  the  Christmas  holidays,  and  even  Monica 
McKeon  too,  although  she's  a  single  girl  and  not  supposed 
to  know.  It's  a  terrible  case,  Mrs.  Brannagan." 

' '  Terrible,  Mrs.  Wyse.  One  of  the  terriblest  ever  hap- 
pened in  the  valley.  .  .  .  And  before  the  children  and 
all." 

"God  bless  and  save  us!  But  we  must  only  leave  it 
in  Father  O'Keeffe's  hands.  He'll  know  what  is  best  to 
do,  never  fear.  I'll  send  for  him  as  soon  as  I  get  to 
the  school." 

There  was  a  note  of  mournful  resignation  in  her  tones 
as  she  moved  away  in  the  ass-trap  with  her  children, 
like  an  old  hen  in  the  midst  of  her  brood.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  peculiar  smirk  of  satisfaction  about  the  lips  of 


240     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Mrs.  Brannagan  as  she  returned  to  the  shop,  bent  upon 
sending  the  letter  on  its  way  once  more. 

"Much  good  it'll  do  her  now,  the  dirty  little  fool!" 
she  said  in  the  happiness  of  some  dumb  feeling  of  ven- 
geance against  one  who  was  merely  a  woman  like  her- 
self. But  she  was  a  woman  who  had  never  had  a  child. 

Thomas  James  was  considerably  drunk.  He  had 
spent  the  remainder  of  the  shilling  upon  porter,  and 
Mr.  Brannagan  had  stood  him  another  pint. 

"Be  sure  and  deliver  it  safely  now,  for  maybe  it's 
important!"  said  Mrs.  Brannagan,  as  she  returned  the 
letter. 

"It's  a  great  letter  anyhow.  It's  after  getting  me 
nine  pints.  That's  long  over  half-a-crown's  worth  of 
drink,"  he  said,  laughing  foolishly  as  he  wandered  out 
to  do  his  errand. 

It  was  a  hard  journey  across  the  rising  meadows  to  the 
house  of  Myles  Shannon,  where  dwelt  his  nephew  Ulick. 
Thomas  James  fell  many  times  and  wallowed  in  the  tall, 
green  grass,  and  he  fell  as  he  went  leaping  high  hedges, 
and  cut  his  hands  and  tore  his  red  face  with  briars  until 
it  was  streaked  with  blood.  He  was,  therefore,  an  alto- 
gether deplorable  figure  when  he  at  last  presented  him- 
self at  the  house  of  Myles  Shannon.  Mr.  Shannon  came 
to  the  door  to  meet  him,  and  in  his  fuddled  condition  he 
laughed  to  himself  as  he  fished  the  letter  out  of  his 
pocket.  It  was  covered  red  with  blood  where  he  had 
felt  it  with  his  torn  hand  from  time  to  time  to  see 
whether  or  not  he  still  retained  possession  of  it. 

"From  Mr.  Brannagan,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Shannon, 
thinking  it  had  been  written  hurriedly  by  the  victualler 
just  fresh  from  the  slaughterhouse  and  that  it  was  a 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     241 

request  for  prime  beef  or  mutton  from  the  rich  fields 
of  Scarden.  He  opened  it,  for  his  nephew's  name  on 
the  envelope  could  not  be  seen  through  the  blood-stains. 
He  did  not  notice  that  it  began  "My  dearest  Ulick" 
until  he  read  down  to  the  sentences  that  gave  him  pause. 
.  .  .  Thomas  James  was  coughing  insinuatingly  beside 
him,  so  he  took  half-a-crown  from  his  pocket  and  handed 
it  to  the  bedraggled  messenger.  It  was  a  tremendous 
reward,  and  the  man  of  porter  did  not  fully  perceive 
it  until  he  had  slipped  out  into  the  sunlight. 

"Be  the  Holy  Farmer!"  he  stuttered,  "another  half- 
crown's  worth  of  drink,  and  I  after  drinking  long 
more  than  that  already.  That  was  the  best  letter  I  ever 
got  to  carry  in  me  life.  A  few  more  like  it  and  I'd 
either  get  me  death  of  drink  or  be  a  millionaire  like 
John  D.  Rockefeller  or  Andrew  Carnegie!" 

Inside  the  parlor  Myles  Shannon  was  reading  Re- 
becca Kerr's  letter  with  blanched  face.  .  .  .  Here  was 
a  terrible  thing ;  here  had  come  to  him  this  great  trouble 
for  the  second  time.  Something  the  like  of  this  had  hap- 
pened twenty-five  or  six  years  ago,  when  his  brother  had 
been  in  the  same  case  with  Nan  Byrne.  Curious  how  it 
should  be  repeating  itself  now !  He  pondered  it  for  a 
few  moments  in  its  hereditary  aspect.  But  there  was 
more  in  it  than  that.  There  was  the  trace  of  his  own 
hand  determining  it.  He  had  encouraged  his  nephew 
with  this  girl.  He  had  directed  him  into  many  reckless 
ways  just  that  he  might  bring  sorrow  to  the  heart  of 
Nan  Byrne  in  the  destruction  of  her  son.  It  was  a 
wicked  thing  for  him  to  have  done.  His  own  nephew — 
just  to  satisfy  his  desire  for  revenge.  And  at  the  bottom 
of  things  he  loved  his  nephew  even  as  he  had  loved 


242     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

his  brother  Henry.  But  he  would  try  to  save  him  the 
results,  the  pains  and  penalties  of  his  infatuation,  even 
as  he  had  tried  to  save  his  brother  Henry  the  results  of 
his.  But  the  girl  and  her  fate.  ...  He  would  not  be 
able  to  forget  that  until  his  dying  day.  .  .  .  For  it  was 
he  who  had  done  this  thing  entirely,  done  it  in  cold 
blood  too  because  he  had  heard  that  John  Brennan  had 
soft  eyes  for  Rebecca  Kerr  and  that,  to  encourge  his 
nephew  and  produce  a  certain  rivalry,  might  be  the 
very  best  means  of  ruining  the  fair  promise  of  Nan 
Byrne's  son. 

Only  last  night  he  had  heard  from  Ulick  that  John 
Brennan  had  entered  the  college  at  Ballinamult  and  that 
his  prospects  never  looked  so  good  as  at  present.  ...  To 
think  of  that  now  was  to  see  how  just  it  was  that  his 
scheme  should  have  so  resulted,  for  it  had  been  con- 
structed upon  a  very  terrible  plan.  He  had  done  it  to 
avenge  his  defeated  love  for  one  girl,  and  lo !  it  had 
brought  another  to  her  ruin. 

"Your  uncle  is  a  wealthy  man."  This  sentence  from 
the  letter  burned  before  him,  and  he  thought  for  a  mo- 
ment that  here  appeared  the  full  solution  of  the  diffi- 
culty. But  no.  Of  what  use  was  that  when  the  dread 
thing  was  about  to  happen  to  her?  .  .  .  But  for  all  that 
he  would  send  her  money  to-day  or  to-morrow,  in  some 
quiet  way,  and  tell  her  the  truth  and  beseech  her  to  go 
away  before  the  final  disgrace  of  discovery  fell  upon  her. 
His  nephew  must  not  know.  He  was  too  young  to  marry 
now,  least  of  all,  a  compulsory  marriage  after  this  fash- 
ion to  a  schoolmistress.  It  was  an  ascent  in  the  social 
standing  of  the  girl  surely,  for  his  brother  Henry  had 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     243 

disgraced  himself  with  a  mere  dressmaker.  But  any 
connection  beyond  the  regrettable  and  painful  mistake 
of  the  whole  thing  was  out  of  the  question  because,  for 
long  years,  the  Shannons  had  been  almost  gentlemen  in 
the  valley. 

Ulick  came  into  the  room  now. 

"Anything  strange,  uncle?" 

1 '  Oh,  nothing  at  all,  only  a  letter  from  Mr.  Brannagan 
about — about  the  sheep.  I  suppose  you're  not  going  any- 
where to-day.  Please  don't,  for  I  want  you  to  give  me  a 
hand  with  the  lambs  after  the  shearing.  And  to-night 
I'll  want  you  to  help  me  with  some  letters  and  accounts 
that  I've  let  slip  for  ever  so  long.  I  want  you  particu- 
larly." 

"All  right,  uncle!" 

How  tractable  and  obliging  his  nephew  had  be- 
come. .  .  . !  Last  summer  he  would  not  do  a  thing  like 
this  for  any  amount  of  coaxing.  He  would  have  business 
in  the  valley  at  all  times.  But  there  was  a  far  Power 
that  adjusted  matters  beyond  the  plans  of  men.  Ulick 
had  drifted  out  of  the  room  and  Mr.  Shannon  again 
took  the  letter  from  his  pocket.  The  sight  of  the  blood 
upon  it  still  further  helped  the  color  of  his  thoughts 
towards  terror.  .  .  .  He  crossed  hurriedly  to  the  bureau 
and  slipped  it  beneath  the  elastic  band  which  held  his 
letters  from  Helena  Cooper,  and  Mrs.  Brennan's  letter 
to  her,  and  Mrs.  Brennan's  letter  to  his  dead  brother 
Henry.  ...  It  seemed  to  belong  there  by  right  of  the 
sad  quality  which  is  the  distinction  of  all  shattered 
dreams.  .  .  .  And,  just  imagine,  he  had  considered  his 
a  wonderful  scheme  of  revenge!  But  now  it  seemed  a 


244     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

poor  and  a  mean  thing.  He  could  hardly  think  of  it  as  a 
part  of  the  once  proud,  easy-going  Myles  Shannon,  but 
rather  the  bitter  and  ugly  result  of  some  devilish  prompt- 
ing that  had  come  to  him  here  in  the  lone  stretches  of 
his  life  in  this  quiet  house  among  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

MORE  than  ever  on  this  morning  was  Rebecca  aware 
that  the  keen  eye  of  Mrs.  Wyse  was  upon  her  as 
she  moved  about  the  schoolroom.  One  of  the  bigger  girls 
was  despatched  to  the  other  school  for  Monica  McKeon 
and  Master  Donnellan's  assistant  came  in  to  Mrs.  Wyse. 
She  nodded  the  customary  greeting  to  Rebecca  as  she 
passed  in.  This  interview  was  unusual  at  such  an  early 
hour  of  the  day.  But  it  was  never  the  custom  of  either 
of  them  to  tell  her  of  what  they  were  talking.  As  she 
busied  herself  teaching  the  very  smallest  of  the  chil- 
dren she  felt  that  the  eyes  of  both  women  were  upon 
her. 

After  what  appeared  to  be  a  very  long  time  Monica 
passed  out.  On  this  second  occasion  she  looked  loftily 
across  her  glasses  and  gave  no  nod  of  acknowledgment 
to  Rebecca.  Rebecca  blushed  at  this  open  affront.  She 
felt  that  Mrs.  Wyse  must  have  something  against  her, 
something  she  had  told  Monica  just  now.  .  .  .  And  now 
the  principal  was  exceedingly  busy  with  her  pen  as  if 
writing  a  hurried  note.  .  .  .  Rebecca  heard  the  high, 
coarse  voice  raised  in  command : 

"Euphemia  McGoldrick,  I  want  you !" 

Then  came  the  timid  "Yes,  ma'am!"  of  Euphemia. 

''Here  are  two  letters,  child.  Take  this  one  to  Father 
O'Keefte,  your  parish  priest,  and  this  to  your  mother, 
like  a  good  child." 

245 


246     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Yes'm!" 

Some  fear  of  unknown  things  began  to  stir  in  the 
breast  of  Rebecca.  This  connection  of  Mrs.  McGoldrick 
with  Mrs.  Wyse's  occupation  of  the  morning  seemed  to 
announce  some  dragging  of  her  into  the  matter.  But 
as  yet,  although  her  mind  moved  tremulously  in  its  ex- 
citement, she  had,  curiously  enough,  no  suspicion  of  what 
was  about  to  happen.  It  could  not  be  that  Mrs.  Wyse 
had  suspected.  Oh,  not  at  all.  There  was  still  no 
danger.  But  it  might  be  a  near  thing.  .  .  .  Already 
she  had  begun  to  wonder  would  TJlick  come  to-night. 
But  of  course  he  would  come.  He  was  not  such 
a  bad  fellow.  And  he  might  be  taken  up  with 
his  own  condition  just  now.  He  had  missed  his 
examination  in  Dublin:  missed  it,  maybe,  through 
his  foolishness  in  coming  to  see  her.  .  .  .  But  al- 
ready she  had  thoroughly  blamed  herself  for  this.  .  .  . 
To  ease  the  pain  of  her  mind  she  went  busily  about 
her  work.  She  knew  that  the  eye  of  Mrs.  Wyse  was 
upon  her  and  that  the  very  best  way  of  defeating  it 
was  by  putting  on  this  air  of  industry.  The  day,  in 
its  half-hour  divisions,  was  passing  rapidly  towards 
noon. 

A  little  girl  came  quickly  in  to  say  that  Father 
O'Keeffe  was  coming  up  the  road.  Rebecca  glanced 
out  of  the  window  and,  sure  enough,  there  he  was  upon 
his  big,  fat,  white  horse  coming  into  the  yard.  She 
heard  his  loud  cries  calling  into  the  Boys'  School  "for 
a  chap  to  come  out  and  hold  his  horse. ' '  When  the  boy 
came  to  do  his  bidding  he  held  forth  at  great  length 
upon  the  best  way  of  leading  "King  Billy"  around  the 
yard. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     247 

Then  the  reverend  manager  of  Tullahanogue  Schools 
moved  into  the  female  portion  of  the  establishment.  At 
the  door  he  twisted  his  round  face  into  an  aspect  of 
severity  which  was  still  humorous  in  its  alien  incongruity. 
Here  also  he  removed  his  hat  from  his  head,  which  was 
white  and  bald  like  the  apex  of  an  egg  above  the  red 
curve  of  his  countenance.  It  was  his  custom  to  visit  the 
schools  of  which  he  was  manager,  thus  precociously  to 
make  up  in  some  way  for  what  he  lacked  in  educa- 
tional knowledge  and  enthusiasm.  As  his  short,  squat 
figure  moved  up  the  passage  by  the  desks,  the  massive 
head  bowed  low  upon  the  broad  chest  and  the  fat  fingers 
of  both  hands  coiled  behind  his  back,  he  was  not  at  all 
unlike  an  actor  made  up  as  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  His 
voice  was  disciplined  in  the  accents  of  militarism  and 
dictatorship. 

Rebecca  noticed  on  the  instant  that  to-day  he  was  as 
one  intensified.  He  began  to  slap  his  legs  continuously 
with  his  silver-mounted  riding  whip.  He  did  not  speak 
to  her  as  he  passed  in.  But,  although  it  caused  her 
heart  to  flutter  for  a  moment,  this  appeared  to  her  as 
no  unusual  occurrence.  He  never  took  notice  of  her  un- 
less when  she  called  at  the  vestry  after  Mass  upon  occa- 
sion to  deliver  up  a  slice  of  her  salary  in  Dues  and  Offer- 
ings. Then  the  Napoleonic  powerfulness  disappeared 
and  he  fell  to  talking,  with  laughter  in  his  words,  about 
the  richness  of  Royal  Meath  in  comparison  with  the  wild 
barrenness  of  Donegal. 

He  moved  up  to  where  Mrs.  Wyse  was  at  work.  Re- 
becca could  distinctly  hear  the  loud  "Well,  what's 
your  best  news?"  with  which  he  always  prefaced  his 
conversations.  In  low  whispers  they  began  to  communi- 


248     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

cate.  ...  It  was  not  till  now  that  she  began  to  have 
immense  doubts  as  to  the  purpose  of  his  visit,  and  already 
she  was  trembling  in  presence  of  the  little  children. 

"An  example  of  her,  Father!" 

"Oh  yes,  an  example  of  her.  Nothing  less,  Mrs. 
Wyse!" 

The  words  came  down  to  Rebecca  clearly  through  the 
deep  silence  that  had  fallen  upon  the  school  since  the 
entrance  of  Father  O'Keeffe.  The  bigger  girls  were 
listening,  listening  in  a  great  hush  of  patience  for  all 
that  had  to  be  reported  when  they  went  home.  Each  one 
was  preparing  for  her  respective  examination — 

"Was  there  any  one  in  the  school  to-day  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  mother!" 

"Who,  the  inspector?" 

"No,  the  Priest!" 

"Father  O'Keeffe?" 

"Well,  anything  else?" 

"He  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Wyse." 

"And  what  was  he  saying?" 

"I  couldn't  hear,  mother,  so  I  couldn't." 

"And  why  didn't  you  listen?  What  am  I  slaving 
myself  to  send  you  to  school  for?" 

And  so  they  were  listening  with  such  eagerness  now. 
They  were  looking  down  at  Rebecca  as  if  she  were  the* 
object  of  the  whole  discussion.  Her  thoughts  were  be- 
ginning to  well  into  a  swirling  unconsciousness.  .  .  . 
Great  sounds,  like  those  of  roaring  cataracts  and  the 
drumming  of  mighty  armies  were  rolling  up  to  her  ears. 

Father  O'Keeffe  and  Mrs.  Wyse  now  came  down  the 
schoolroom  together.  As  they  passed  Rebecca,  Father 
0  'Keeffe  beckoned  to  her  with  his  riding- whip  in  the  way 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     249 

one  might  call  to  a  very  inferior  hireling.  Shaken  by 
unique  and  powerful  impulses,  she  went  out  into  the 
hall-way  to  meet  her  superiors.  .  .  .  Instantaneously 
she  knew  what  had  happened — they  knew. 

"Well,  isn't  this  a  nice  thing?"  began  Father 
O'Keeffe. 

"Ye  might  say  it's  a  nice  thing,  Father!"  echoed 
Mrs.  Wyse. 

"An  enormous  thing!" 

"A  terrible  thing!    Father!" 

"You're  a  nice  lady!"  he  said,  addressing  Rebecca 
angrily.  "To  come  into  a  parish  where  there  is  none 
save  decent  people  to  leave  a  black  disgrace  upon  it  and 
you  going  away ! ' ' 

"Was  ever  the  like  known,  Father?  And  just  imagine 
her  keeping  it  so  secret.  Why  we  thought  there  was 
nothing  in  this  affair  with  Ulick  Shannon.  There  was 
such  an  amount  of  cuteness  in  the  way  they  used  to 
meet  at  times  and  in  places  we  never  knew  of.  In  the 
woods,  I  suppose!" 

Father  O'Keeffe  was  addressing  her  directly  again. 

"Why,  when  I  think  of  the  disgrace  to  this  school  and 
all  that,  it  drives  me  near  mad." 

"And,  mind  you,  the  shocking  insult  it  is  to  me  and 
to  the  little  children." 

' '  The  shocking  insult  to  you  and  to  the  little  children. 
True  for  you,  Mrs.  Wyse." 

"And  when  I  think  of  how  you  have  contrived  to  be- 
smirch the  fair  name  of  one  of  the  fine,  respectable 
families  of  the  parish,  gentlemen,  as  you  might  say,  with- 
out one  blot  upon  their  escutcheon. ' ' 

' '  People  as  high  up  as  the  Houlihans  of  Clonabroney. ' ' 


250     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"People  as  high  up  as  the  Houlihans  of  Clonabroney, 
Mrs.  Wyse." 

His  eye  was  upon  Kebecca  with  a  sudden  gleam. 

"When  I  think  of  that,  I  consider  it  an  enormous 
offense.  ..."  She  did  not  flinch  before  them.  She 
was  thinking  only  of  the  way  in  which  they  had  come 
to  hear  it.  ...  She  was  concerned  now  that  Ulick  should 
not  suffer,  that  his  grand  family  name  should  not  be 
dragged  down  with  hers.  ...  If  he  had  not  come  to 
her  she  would  have  slipped  away  without  a  word.  .  .  . 
And  now  to  think  that  it  had  become  public.  The  pre- 
vious burning  of  her  mind  had  been  nothing  to  this.  .  .  . 
But  Father  0  'Keeffe  was  still  speaking : 

"Listen  to  me,  girl!  You  are  to  go  from  hence,  but 
not,  as  you  may  imagine,  to  the  place  from  whence  you 
came.  For  this  very  evening  I  intend  to  warn  your 
pastor  of  your  lapse  from  virtue  while  in  our  midst,  so 
that  you  may  not  return  to  your  father 's  house  and  have 
no  more  hope  of  teaching  in  any  National  school  within 
the  four  seas  of  Ireland. ' ' 

' '  That  is  only  right  and  proper,  Father ! ' '  put  in  Mrs. 
Wyse. 

Eebecca  was  not  listening  or  else  she  might  have  shud- 
dered within  the  shadow  of  the  torture  his  words  held  for 
her.  In  these  moments  she  had  soared  far  beyond  them. 
.  .  .  Through  the  high  mood  in  which  she  was  accepting 
her  tragedy  she  was  becoming  exalted.  .  .  .  What  glo- 
rious moments  there  would  be,  what  divine  compensation 
in  whispering  of  the  torture  surrounding  its  beginning  to 
the  little  child  when  it  came? 

"So  now,  Rebecca  Kerr,  I  command  you  to  go  forth 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     251 

from  this  school  and  from  the  little  children  that  you 
corrupt  towards  your  own  abomination  by  further  pres- 
ence among  them." 

As  he  moved  angrily  out  of  the  school  she  moved 
quietly,  and  without  speaking  a  word,  to  take  her  coat 
and  hat  down  from  the  rack. 

"Oh,  wait!"  commanded  Mrs.  Wyse,  "you  must  not 
leave  until  three,  until  you  have  made  an  example  of 
yourself  here  in  a  way  that  all  the  children  may  bring 
home  the  story.  God  knows  it  will  be  the  hard  thing 
for  them  to  be  telling  their  mothers  when  they  go  home. 
The  poor  little  things !" 

Rebecca  stood  there  desolately  alone  in  the  hall-way 
through  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon.  In  one  aspect 
she  appeared  as  a  bold  child  being  thus  corrected  by  a 
harsh  superior.  On  many  more  occasions  than  appeared 
absolutely  necessary  Monica  McKeon  passed  and  repassed 
her  there  as  she  stood  so  lonely.  The  assistant  of  the 
Boys'  School  was  a  model  of  disdain  as,  with  her  lip 
curled,  she  looked  away  out  over  her  glasses.  And  ever 
and  anon  Mrs.  Wyse  passed  in  and  out,  muttering  mourn- 
fully to  herself : 

"The  cheek  of  that  now,  before  the  children  and  all!" 

And  the  elder  girls  moved  about  her  in  a  procession  of 
sneering.  They  knew,  and  they  were  examining  her  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  full  accounts  when  they  went 
home. 

But,  occasionally,  some  of  the  little  ones  would  come 
and  gaze  up  into  her  eyes  with  wild  looks.  Although 
they  did  not  know  why,  they  seemed  to  possess  for  her 
an  immense,  mute  pity. 


252     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Poor  Miss  Kerr!"  they  would  say,  stroking  her 
dress,  but  their  big  sisters  would  come  and  whisk  them 
away. 

"Don't  touch  her.  She's  dirty "  Then  Monica 

would  pass  again.  At  last  she  heard  the  merciful  stroke 
of  three. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

WHEN  John  Brennan  went  to  his  room  after  his 
father's  outburst  it  was  with  the  intention  of 
doing  some  preparation  for  the  morrow 's  work  at  the  col- 
lege; but  although  he  opened  several  books  in  turn,  he 
could  feel  no  quickening  of  knowledge  in  his  mind.  .  .  . 
There  she  was  again  continually  recurring  to  his  thoughts. 
And  now  she  was  far  grander.  This  was  the  fear  that 
had  always  been  hidden  in  his  heart, — that  somehow  her 
friendship  with  Ulick  was  not  a  thing  that  should  have 
happened.  But  he  had  considered  it  a  reality  he  could 
not  attempt  to  question.  Yet  he  knew  that  but  for  Ulick 
she  must  be  very  near  to  him.  And  Ulick  had  admitted 
his  unworthiness,  and  so  the  separation  was  at  an  end. 

It  was  surprising  that  this  should  have  happened  now. 
His  mind  sprang  back  to  all  that  tenderness  with  which 
his  thoughts  of  her  had  been  surrounded  through  these 
long  days  of  dreaming,  when  he  had  contrived  to  meet 
her,  as  if  by  accident,  on  her  way  from  school. 

All  through  the  next  day  his  heart  was  upon  her ;  the 
thought  of  her  would  give  peace.  Into  every  vacant 
moment  she  would  come  with  the  full  light  of  her  pres- 
ence. He  had  suddenly  relapsed  into  the  mood  that  had 
imprisoned  him  after  the  summer  holidays.  He  stood 
aloof  from  Father  Considine  and  did  not  wish  to  see  him 
through  the  whole  of  his  long  day  in  the  college  at  Ballin- 
amult.  .  .  .  All  the  way  home  he  pictured  her.  She  was 
253 


254     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

luring  him  now  as  she  had  always  lured  him — towards 
a  fairer  vision  of  the  valley. 

He  noticed  how  the  summer  was  again  flooding  over 
the  fields  like  a  great  river  spilling  wide.  It  was  a 
glorious  coincidence  that  she  should  be  returning  to  him 
now,  a  creature  of  brightness  at  a  time  of  beauty. 

The  road  seemed  short  this  pleasant  afternoon,  and  the 
customary  feeling  of  dusty  weariness  was  not  upon  him 
as  he  leapt  lightly  off  the  bicycle  at  his  mother's  door. 
Mrs.  Brennan  came  out  to  meet  him  eagerly.  This  was 
no  unusual  occurrence  now  that  he  had  again  begun  to 
ascend  the  ladder  of  the  high  condition  she  had  planned 
for  him.  She  was  even  a  far  prouder  woman  now,  for, 
somehow,  she  had  always  half  remembered  the  stain  of 
charity  hanging  over  his  uprise  in  England.  Besides 
this  he  was  nearer  to  her,  moving  intimately  through 
the  valley,  a  living  part  of  her  justification.  .  .  .  Her 
fading  eyes  now  looked  out  tenderly  at  her  son.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  great  light  in  them  this  afternoon,  a 
great  light  of  love  for  him.  .  .  .  He  was  moved  beneath 
their  gaze.  And  still  she  continued  to  smile  upon  him  in 
a  weak  way  as  within  the  grip  of  some  strong  excitement. 
He  saw  when  he  entered  that  his  dinner  was  not  set  out 
as  usual  on  the  white  table  in  the  kitchen.  .  .  .  She 
brought  him  into  the  sewing-room.  And  still  she  had  the 
same  smile  trembling  upon  her  lips  and  the  same  light  in 
her  eyes.  .  .  .  All  this  was  growing  mysterious  and 
oppressive.  But  his  mood  was  proof  against  sad  influ- 
ences. It  must  be  some  tale  of  good  fortune  come  to 
their  house  of  which  his  mother  had  now  to  tell. 

' '  D  'ye  know  what,  John  ?  The  greatest  thing  ever  is 
after  happening!" 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     255 

"Is  that  a  fact,  mother?" 

"Though  mebbe  'tis  not  right  for  me  to  tell  you  and 
you  all  as  one  as  a  priest,  I  may  say.  But  sure  you're 
bound  to  hear  it,  and  mebbe  a  little  knowledge  of  the 
kind  might  not  be  amiss  even  to  one  in  your  exalted 
station.  And  then  to  make  it  better,  it  concerns  two  very 
near  friends  of  yours,  Mr.  Ulick  Shannon  and  Miss  Re- 
becca Kerr,  I  thank  you!" 

John  Brennan's  mind  leaped  immediately  to  interest. 
Were  they  gone  back  to  one  another,  and  after  what  he 
had  thought  to-day?  This  was  the  question  his  lips 
carried  inwardly  to  himself. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  can  tell  you.  But  Father 
0  'Keeffe  was  at  school  to-day  in  a  great  whet.  He  made 
a  show  of  her  before  the  children,  Mrs.  Wyse  and  Miss 
McKeon,  of  course,  giving  him  good  help.  He  dis- 
missed her,  and  told  her  to  go  about  her  business..  He'll 
mebbe  speak  of  her  publicly  from  the  altar  on  Sun- 
day." 

"And  what  is  it,  mother,  what — ?" 

"Oh,  she's  going  to  have  a  misfortune,  me  son.  She's 
going  to  be  a  mother,  God  bless  us  all !  and  not  married 
or  a  ha  'porth ! ' ' 

"OGod!" 

' '  But  sure  she  put  in  for  nothing  else,  with  her  going 
up  and  all  that  to  Dublin  to  have  her  dresses  made,  in- 
stead of  getting  them  done  nice  and  quiet  and  modest 
and  respectable  be  me.  I  may  tell  you  that  I  was  more 
than  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"Well  now,  and  the—" 

John  was  biting  his  lips  in  passion,  but  she  took 
another  view  of  it  as  she  interrupted  him. 


256     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"Ah,  you  may  well  ask  who  he  is,  who  but  that  scoun- 
drel Ulick  Shannon,  that  I  was  never  done  asking  you 
not  to  speak  to.  You  were  young  and  innocent,  of  course, 
and  could  not  be  expected  to  know  what  I  know.  But 
mebbe  you'll  avoid  him  now,  although  I  think  he  won't  be 
long  here,  for  mebbe  Father  O'Keeffe'll  run  him  out  of 
the  parish.  Maybe  not  though,  for  his  uncle  has  bags  of 
money.  Indeed  I  wouldn't  put  it  apast  him  if  he  was  the 
lad  encouraged  him  to  this,  for  the  Shannons  were  always 
blackguards  in  their  hearts.  .  .  .  But  it'll  be  great  tc 
hear  Father  O'Keeffe  on  Sunday.  I  must  be  sure  and 
go  to  his  Mass.  Oh,  it'll  be  great  to  hear  him !" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  will  be  great  to  hear  him." 

John  spoke  out  of  the  gathering  bitterness  of  his  heart. 

"I  wonder  what '11  become  of  her  now.  I  wonder 
where '11  she  go.  Oh,  to  Dublin,  I  suppose.  She  was  al- 
ways fond  of  it. " 

His  mother  was  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  conjecture  as  to 
the  probable  extent  of  Rebecca's  fate.  And  this  was  the 
woman  who  had  always  expressed  a  melting  tenderness  in 
her  actions  towards  him.  This  was  his  mother  who  had 
spoken  now  with  all  uncharitableness.  There  was  such 
an  absence  of  human  pity  in  her  words  as  most  truly 
appalled  him.  .  .  .  Very  quickly  he  saw  too  that  it  was 
upon  his  own  slight  connection  with  this  tragic  thing  her 
mind  was  dwelling.  This  was  to  him  now  a  token,  not  of 
love,  but  rather  of  enormous  selfishness.  .  .  .  Her  eyes 
were  upon  him  still,  watering  in  admiration  with  a  weak 
gleam.  .  .  .  The  four  walls  seemed  to  be  moving  in  to 
crush  him  after  the  manner  of  some  medieval  torture 
chamber.  .  .  .  Within  them,  too,  was  beginning  to  rise 
a  horrid  stench  as  of  dead  human  things.  .  .  .  This 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     257 

ghastliness  that  had  sprung  up  between  mother  and  son 
seemed  to  have  momentarily  blotted  out  the  conscious- 
ness of  both.  They  stared  at  one  another  now  with 
glassy,  unseeing  eyes. 

After  three  Rebecca  took  her  lonely  way  from  the 
school.  Neither  Mrs.  Wyse  nor  Monica  McKeon  had  a 
word  for  her  at  parting.  Neither  this  woman,  who  was 
many  times  a  mother,  nor  this  girl  who  might  yet  be  a 
mother  many  times.  They  were  grinning  loudly  and 
passing  some  sneer  between  them,  as  they  moved  away 
from  one  another  alone. 

Down  the  valley  road  she  went,  the  sunlight  dazzling 
her  tired  eyes.  A  thought  of  something  that  had  hap- 
pened upon  this  day  last  year  came  with  her  remembrance 
of  the  date.  It  was  the  first  anniversary  of  some  slight, 
glad  event  that  had  brought  her  happiness,  and  yet  whati 
a  day  it  was  of  dire  happening?  Just  one  short  year 
ago  she  had  not  known  the  valley  or  Ulick  or  this  fearful 
thing.  .  .  .  There  were  friends  about  her  on  this  day  last 
year  and  the  sound  of  laughter,  and  she  had  not  been 
so  far  distant  from  her  father's  house.  And,  0  God !  to 
think  that  now  she  was  so  much  alone. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  there  was  some  one 
running  by  her  side  and  calling  "Miss  Kerr!  Miss 
Kerr!" 

"Oh,  Janet  Comaskey!"  she  said,  turning.  "Is  it 
you?" 

* '  Yes,  Miss  Kerr.  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  was  talking 
to  God  last  night,  and  I  was  telling  Him  about  you.  He 
asked  me  did  I  like  you,  and  I  said  I  did.  'And  so  do 
I,'  said  He.  'I  like  Miss  Kerr  very  much,'  He  said,  'for 
she's  veiy  nice,  very,  very  nice.'  " 


258     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Rebecca  had  never  disliked  this  queer  child,  but  she 
loved  her  now,  and  bending  down,  warmly  kissed  her 
wild  face. 

"Thanks,  miss.  I  only  wanted  to  tell  you  about  God," 
said  Janet,  dropping  behind. 

Rebecca  was  again  alone,  but  now  she  was  within  sight 
of  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick.  It  seemed  to  be 
dozing  there  in  the  sunlight.  She  began  to  question  her- 
self did  those  within  already  know.  .  .  .  ?  Now  that  the 
full  publicity  of  her  condition  seemed  imminent  an  ex- 
traordinary feeling  of  vanity  was  beginning  to  take  pos- 
session of  her.  She  took  off  her  dust-coat  and  hung  it 
upon  her  arm.  Thus  uncloaked  she  would  face  the  eyes 
of  Mrs.  McGoldrick  and  her  daughters,  Euphemia  and 
Clementina,  and  the  eyes,  very  probably,  of  John  Ross 
McGoldrick  and  Neville  Chamberlain  McGoldrick.  .  .  . 

But  when  she  entered  the  house  she  experienced  the 
painful  stillness  of  a  tomb-like  place.  There  was  no  one 
to  be  seen.  She  went  upstairs  with  a  kind  of  faltering  in 
her  limbs,  but  her  head  was  erect  and  her  fine  eyes  were 
flashing.  .  .  .  Even  still  was  she  soaring  beyond  and 
beyond  them.  Her  eye  was  caught  by  a  note  pinned  upon 
her  door.  It  seemed  very  funny  and,  despite  her  present 
condition  of  confusion  and  worry,  she  smiled,  for  this  was 
surely  a  melodramatic  trick  that  Mrs.  McGoldrick  had 
acquired  from  the  character  of  her  reading.  .  .  .  Still 
smiling,  she  tore  it  open.  It  read  like  a  proclamation, 
and  was  couched  in  the  very  best  handwriting  of  Ser- 
geant McGoldrick. 

"Miss  Kerr, 
Rev.  Louis  O  'Keeffe,  P.P.,  Garradrimna,  has  given 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     259 

notice  that,  on  account  of  certain  deplorable  circum- 
stances, we  are  to  refuse  you  permission  to  lodge  with 
us  any  longer.  This  we  hasten  to  do  without  any 
regret,  considering  that,  to  oblige  you  at  the  instiga- 
tion of  Father  0  'Keeffe,  we  broke  the  Regulation  of 
the  Force,  which  forbids  the  keeping  of  lodgers  by 
any  member  of  that  body.  We  hereby  give  you 
notice  to  be  out  of  this  house  by  6  p.m.  on  this  even- 
ing, May ,  19 ,  having,  it  is  understood,  by 

that  time  packed  up  your  belongings  and  discharged 
your  liabilities  to  Mrs.  McGoldrick.  Father 
O 'Keeffe  has,  very  magnanimously,  arranged  that 
Mr.  Charles  Clarke  is  to  call  for  you  with  his  motor 
and  take  you  with  all  possible  speed  to  the  station 
at  Kilaconnaghan. 

Sylvester  McGoldrick  (Sergeant,  R.I.C.)." 

The  official  look  of  the  pronouncement  seemed  only  to 
increase  its  gloomy  finality,  but  the  word  "magnani- 
mously, ' '  fresh  from  the  dictionary  at  the  Barrack,  made 
her  laugh  outright.  The  offense  she  had  committed  was 
unnamed,  too  terrible  for  words.  She  was  being  sen- 
tenced like  a  doomed  Easter  rebel.  .  .  .  Yet,  even  still, 
she  was  not  without  some  thought  of  the  practical  as- 
pect of  her  case.  She  owed  thirty  shillings  to  Mrs. 
McGoldrick.  This  would  leave  her  very  little,  out  of 
the  few  pounds  she  had  saved  from  her  last  instalment 
of  salary,  with  which  to  face  the  world.  This,  of  course, 
if  Ulick  did  not  come.  .  .  .  And  here  was  her  dinner,  set 
untidily  in  the  stuffy  room  where  the  window  had  not 
been  opened  since  the  time  she  had  left  it  this  morning 
in  confusion.  And  the  whole  house  was  quiet  as  the 


260     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

grave.  She  never  remembered  to  have  heard  it  so 
quiet  at  any  other  time.  It  seemed  as  if  all  this  silence 
had  been  designed  with  a  studied  calculation  of  the  pain 
it  would  cause.  There  was  no  kindness  in  this  woman 
either,  although  she  too  was  a  mother  and  had  young 
daughters.  It  appeared  so  greatly  uncharitable  that 
in  these  last  terrible  moments  she  could  not  cast  from 
her  the  small  and  pitiful  enmity  she  had  begun  upon 
the  evening  of  Rebecca's  arrival  in  the  valley.  She 
would  not  come  even  now  and  help  her  pack  up  her 
things,  and  she  so  weary?  .  .  .  But  it  was  easily  done. 
The  few  articles  that  had  augmented  her  wardrobe 
since  her  coming  to  the  valley  would  go  into  the  basket 
she  had  used  to  carry  those  which  were  barely  necessary 
for  her  comfort  when  she  went  to  that  lonely  cottage 
in  Donegal.  .  .  .  The  mean  room  was  still  bare  as  when 
she  had  first  come  to  it.  She  had  not  attempted  to 
decorate  it.  In  a  pile  in  one  corner  stood  the  full  series 
of  Irish  School  Weeklies  and  Weldon's  Ladies'  Journals 
she  had  purchased  since  her  coming  here.  She  had  little 
use  for  either  of  these  publications  now,  little  use  for  the 
one  that  related  to  education  or  the  other  that  related 
to  adornment. 

There  came  a  feverish  haste  upon  her  to  get  done  with 
her  preparations  for  departure,  and  soon  they  were  com- 
pleted. She  had  her  trunk  corded  and  all  ready.  She 
had  no  doubt  that  Ulick  would  meet  her  upon  The  Road 
of  the  Dead  at  5.30,  the  hour  she  had  named  in  the  letter 
of  this  morning.  It  was  lucky  she  had  so  accurately 
guessed  her  possible  time  of  departure,  although  some- 
how she  had  had  no  notion  this  morning  of  leaving  so 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     261 

soon.  But  already  it  was  more  than  4.30  by  her  little 
wristlet  watch.  She  put  on  her  best  dress,  which  had 
been  left  out  on  the  bed,  and  redid  her  hair.  It  was 
still  the  certain  salvage  from  the  wreck  she  was  becom- 
ing. Ulick  or  any  other  man,  for  all  he  had  ruined  her, 
must  still  love  her  for  that  hair  of  gold.  It  needed  no 
crown  at  all,  but  a  woman's  vanity  was  still  hers,  and  she 
put  on  a  pretty  hat  which  Ulick  had  fancied  in  Dublin. 
She  had  worn  it  for  the  first  time  last  summer  in  Done- 
gal, and  it  became  her  better  than  any  hat  she  had  ever 
worn.  .  .  .  What  would  they  say  if  they  saw  her  moving 
about  in  this  guise,  so  brazenly  as  it  seemed,  when  she 
might  be  spoken  of  from  the  altar  on  Sunday? 

Now  fell  upon  her  a  melancholy  desire  to  see  the 
chapel.  There  was  yet  time  to  go  there  and  pray  just 
as  she  had  thought  of  praying  on  her  first  evening  on 
coming  to  Garradrimna.  She  took  a  final  glance  at  the 
little,  mean  room.  It  had  not  been  a  room  of  mirth  for 
her,  and  she  was  not  sorry  to  leave  it — there  was  the 
corded  trunk  to  tell  the  tale  of  its  inhospitality.  She 
took  the  money  for  Mrs.  Goldrick  from  her  purse  and 
put  it  into  an  envelope.  .  .  .  Going  downstairs  she  left 
it  upon  the  kitchen  table.  There  was  no  one  to  be  seen, 
but  she  could  hear  the  scurrying  of  small  feet  from 
her  as  if  she  were  some  monstrous  and  forbidden  thing. 

As  she  went  up  the  bright  road  there  was  a  flickering 
consciousness  in  her  breast  that  she  was  an  offense  against 
the  sunlight,  but  this  feeling  fled  away  from  her  when  she 
went  into  the  chapel  and  knelt  down  to  pray.  Her  mind 
was  full  of  her  purpose,  and  she  did  not  experience  the 
distraction  of  one  single,  selfish  thought.  But  when  she 


262     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

put  her  hands  up  to  her  face  in  an  attitude  of  piety 
she  felt  that  her  face  was  burning. 

It  was  a  day  for  confessions,  but  there  were  few  people 
in  the  chapel,  and  those  not  approaching  the  confes- 
sionals. The  two  young  curates,  Father  Forde  and 
Father  Fagan,  were  moving  about  the  quiet  aisles,  each 
deeply  intent  upon  the  reading  of  his  office.  They  were 
nearer  the  altar  than  to  her,  but  for  all  the  air  of 
piety  in  which  they  seemed  to  be  enveloped,  they  de- 
tected her  presence  immediately  and  simultaneously. 
Soon  they  began  to  extend  their  back  and  forward 
pacing  to  include  her  within  the  range  of  their  side- 
long vision.  ...  By  the  time  she  had  got  half  way 
around  her  little  mother-of-pearl  rosary  they  were  mov- 
ing past  her  and  towards  one  another  at  her  back. 
She  was  saying  her  poor  prayers  as  well  as  she  could, 
but  there  they  were  with  their  heads  working  up  and 
down  as  they  looked  alternately  at  her  and  at  their 
holy  books.  .  .  .  Just  as  she  got  to  the  end  of  the  last 
decade  she  was  conscious  that  they  had  come  together 
and  were  whispering  behind  her.  ...  It  was  not  until 
then  that  she  saw  the  chapel  for  what  it  stood  in  regard 
to  her.  It  was  the  place  where,  on  Sunday  next,  mean 
people  would  smirk  in  satisfaction  as  they  sat  listening 
in  all  their  lack  of  charity  and  fulness  of  pride.  .  .  . 
The  realization  brought  the  pulsing  surge  of  anger 
to  her  blood  and  she  rose  to  come  away.  But  when 
she  turned  around  abruptly  there  were  the  two  curates 
with  their  eyes  still  fixed  upon  her.  .  .  .  She  did  not 
meet  their  looks  full  straight,  for  they  turned  away  as 
if  to  avoid  the  contamination  of  her  as  she  ran  from  the 
House  of  God. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     263 

When  John  Brennan  reached  a  point  in  his  disgust 
where  further  endurance  was  impossible  he  broke  away 
from  the  house  and  from  his  mother.  He  went  out 
wildly  through  the  green  fields. 

But  he  would  see  her.  He  would  go  to  her,  for  surely 
she  had  need  of  him  now.  ...  If  Ulick  did  not  come. 
.  .  .  And  there  was  much  in  his  manner  and  conversa- 
tion of  the  previous  night  to  make  it  doubtful.  ...  If  he 
did  not  take  her  away  from  this  place  and  make  her 
his  own  to  protect  and  cherish,  there  was  only  one 
course  left  open.  .  .  .  He  knew  little  of  these  things, 
for  he  knew  little  of  the  ways  of  life,  but  instinctively 
he  felt  that  Rebecca  would  now  cling  to  Ulick  and  that 
Ulick  would  be  a  great  scoundrel  if  he  spurned  her 
from  him.  And  what,  he  asked  himself,  would  he,  John 
Brennan,  do  in  that  case? 

No  answer  would  spring  directly  to  his  thoughts,  but 
some  ancient,  primeval  feeling  was  stirring  in  his  heart — 
the  answer  that  men  have  held  to  be  the  only  answer  from 
the  beginning  of  the  world.  But  that  was  a  dreadful 
thing  which,  in  its  eddying  circles  of  horror,  might  com- 
pass his  own  end  also. 

But,  maybe  the  whole  story  was  untrue.  He  had 
heard  his  mother  speak  many  a  time  after  the  same 
fashion,  and  there  was  never  one  case  of  the  kind  but 
had  proved  untrue.  Yet  it  was  terrible  that  no  answer 
would  come  flashing  out  from  his  wild  thoughts,  and 
already  he  had  reached  The  Koad  of  the  Dead. 

His  wandering  eyes  had  at  last  begun  to  rest  upon  a 
wide,  green  field.  He  saw  the  wind  and  sun  conspiring 
to  ripple  the  grass  into  the  loveliest  little  waves.  He  had 
loved  this  always,  and  even  the  present  state  of  his  mind 


264     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

did  not  refuse  the  sensation  of  its  beauty.  He  went  and 
leaned  across  the  field  gate  to  gaze  upon  it. 

He  turned  suddenly,  for  there  was  a  step  approaching 
him  along  the  road.  Yes,  surely  it  was  she.  It  was 
Rebecca  Kerr  herself  coming  towards  him  down  The 
Eoad  of  the  Dead.  .  .  .  She  was  smiling,  but  from  the 
dark,  red  shadows  about  her  eyes  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
she  had  quite  recently  been  crying. 

"Good  evening,  John  Brennan!"  she  said. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Kerr!'' 

There  was  a  deep  touch  of  concern,  turning  to  anxiety, 
almost  a  rich  tenderness  in  his  words.  She  heard  them 
for  what  they  were,  and  there  came  to  her  clearly  their 
accents  of  pity.  .  .  .  For  the  moment  neither  seemed 
capable  of  finding  speech.  .  .  .  Her  eyes  were  searching 
The  Road  of  the  Dead  for  the  man  she  expected  to  meet 
her  here.  But  he  was  not  coming.  In  the  silence  that 
had  fallen  between  them  John  Brennan  had  clearly 
glimpsed  the  dumb  longing  that  was  upon  her.  .  .  . 
He  felt  the  final  gloom  that  was  moving  in  around  her 
.  .  .  yet  he  could  not  find  speech. 

"I'm  going  away  from  the  valley,"  said  Rebecca. 

He  made  some  noise  in  his  throat,  but  she  could  hear 
no  distinct  word. 

"It  was  not  you  I  expected  to  meet  here  this  evening. 
It  is  so  strange  how  we  have  met  like  this. ' ' 

"I  just  came  out  for  a  walk,"  he  stammered,  at  a  loss 
for  something  better  to  say. 

"I'm  glad  we  have  met,"  she  said,  "for  this  is  the 
last  time." 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  her  words  held  much  meaning 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     265 

for  herself  and  him.  ...  He  seemed  to  be  nearer  the 
brink  as  her  eyes  turned  from  him  again  to  search  the 
road. 

' '  He  will  not  come, ' '  she  said,  and  there  was  a  kind  of 
wretched  recklessness  in  her  tones.  ' '  I  know  he  will  not 
come,  for  that  possibility  has  never  been."  She  grew 
more  resigned  of  a  sudden.  She  saw  that  John  Brennan 
too  was  searching  the  road  with  his  eyes.  .  .  .  Then  he 
knew  the  reason  why  she  was  going  away. 

He  was  such  a  nice  boy,  and  between  his  anxious 
watching  now  for  her  sake  he  was  gazing  with  pity  into 
her  eyes.  .  .  .  He  must  know  Ulick  too  as  a  man  knows 
his  friend,  and  that  Ulick  would  not  come  to  her  in  this 
her  hour  of  trial.  .  .  .  The  knowledge  seemed  the  more 
terrible  since  it  was  through  John  Brennan  it  had  come ; 
and  yet  it  was  less  terrible  since  he  did  not  disdain  her 
for  what  she  had  done.  She  saw  through  his  excuse. 
He  had  come  this  way  with  the  special  purpose  of  seeing 
her,  and  if  he  had  not  met  her  thus  accidentally  he  must 
inevitably  have  called  at  the  house  of  Sergeant  McGold- 
rick  to  extend  his  farewell.  She  was  glad  that  she  had 
saved  him  this  indignity  by  coming  out  to  her  own 
disappointment.  .  .  .  She  was  sorry  that  he  had  again 
returned  to  his  accustomed  way  of  thinking  of  her,  that 
he  had  again  departed  from  the  way  into  which  she  had 
attempted  to  direct  him. 

And  now  there  loomed  up  for  her  great  terror  in  this 
thought.  Yet  she  could  read  it  very  clearly  in  the  way  he 
was  looking  so  friendly  upon  her.  .  .  .  Why  had  he  al- 
ways looked  upon  her  in  this  way?  Surely  she  had 
never  desired  it.  She  had  never  desired  him.  It  was 


266     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Ulick  she  had  longed  for  always.  It  was  Ulick  she  had 
longed  for  this  evening,  and  it  was  John  Brennan  who 
had  come.  .  .  .  Yes,  how  well  he  had  come  ?  It  was  very 
simple  and  very  beautiful,  this  action  of  his,  but  in  its 
simple  goodness  there  was  a  fair  promise  of  its  high 
desolation.  It  appeared  that  she  stood  for  his  ruin  also, 
and,  even  now,  in  the  mounting  moments  of  her  fear, 
this  appeared  as  an  ending  far  more  appalling.  .  .  . 
She  was  coming  to  look  at  her  own  fate  as  a  thing  she 
might  be  able  to  bear,  but  there  was  something  so  vastly 
filled  with  torture  in  this  thought.  .  .  .  Whenever  she 
would  look  into  the  eyes  of  the  child  and  make  plans 
for  its  little  future  she  would  think  of  John  Brennan 
and  what  had  happened  to  him. 

She  felt  that  they  had  been  a  long  time  standing  here 
at  this  gate,  by  turns  gazing  anxiously  up  and  down  the 
road,  by  turns  looking  vacantly  out  over  the  sea  of  grass. 
Time  was  of  more  account  than  ever  before,  for  was  it 
not  upon  this  very  evening  that  she  was  being  banished 
from  the  valley? 

"I  must  go  now,"  she  said;  "he  will  never  come." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  moved  as  if  to  accompany  her. 
.  .  .  She  grew  annoyed  as  she  observed  his  action. 

"No,  no,  you  must  not  come  with  me  now.  You  must 
not  speak  with  me  again.  I  have  placed  myself  forever 
beyond  your  friendship  or  your  thought ! ' ' 

As  she  extended  her  hand  to  him  her  heart  was  moved 
by  a  thousand  impulses. 

"Good-by,  John  Brennan!"  she  said  simply. 

"Good-by,  Rebecca!"  said  he  at  last,  finding  speech 
by  a  tremendous  effort.  .  .  .  And  without  another  word 
they  parted  there  on  The  Road  of  the  Dead. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     267 

Outside  the  garden  gate  of  Sergeant  McGoldrick 
Charlie  Clarke  was  waiting  for  her  with  his  motor-car. 
Her  trunk  had  been  put  in  at  the  back.  This  was  an 
unholy  job  for  a  saintly  chauffeur,  but  it  was  Father 
O'Keeffe's  command  and  his  will  must  be  done.  When 
the  news  of  it  had  been  communicated  to  him  he  had 
said  a  memorable  thing: 

"Well,  now,  the  quare  jobs  a  religious  man  has  some- 
times to  do ;  but  maybe  these  little  punishments  are  by 
way  of  satisfaction  for  some  forgotten  and  far-distant 
sin!" 

Rebecca  understood  his  anxiety  to  have  her  off  his 
hands  as  she  saw  him  jump  in  behind  the  wheel  at  her 
approach.  She  got  in  beside  her  poor  trunk,  and  pres- 
ently the  car  would  be  ready  to  start.  There  was  not  a 
trace  of  any  of  the  McGoldrick  family  to  be  seen.  .  .  . 
But  there  was  a  sudden  breaking  through  the  green  hedge 
upon  the  other  side  of  the  road,  and  Janet  Comaskey 
stood  beside  the  car.  Rebecca  was  surprised  by  the  sud- 
den appearance  of  the  little,  mad  girl  at  this  moment. 

' '  Miss  Kerr,  Miss  Kerr ! "  she  called.  "  I  got  this  from 
God.  God  told  me  to  give  you  this ! ' ' 

The  car  started  away,  and  Rebecca  saw  that  the  super- 
scription on  the  letter  she  had  been  handed  was  in  the 
pronounced  Vere  Foster  style  of  Master  Donnellan. 
Doubtless  it  was  some  long-winded  message  of  farewell 
from  the  kind-hearted  master,  and  she  would  not  open 
it  now.  It  would  be  something  to  read  as  she  moved 
away  towards  Dublin. 

Just  now  her  eyes  were  being  filled  by  the  receding 
pageant  of  the  valley,  that  place  of  all  earth's  places 
which  had  so  powerfully  arrayed  its  villainy  against  her. 


268     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

.  .  .  And  to  think  that  he  had  not  come.  ...  It  was  the 
Valley  of  Hinnom.  .  .  .  Yes,  to  think  that  he  had  not 
come  after  all  she  had  been  to  him,  after  all  the  love  of 
her  heart  she  had  given  him.  No  word  could  ever,  ever 
pass  between  them  again.  They  were  upon  the  very 
brink  of  the  eternity  of  separation.  She  knew  now  that 
for  all  the  glory  in  which  she  had  once  beheld  him,  he 
must  shrivel  down  to  the  bitter  compass  of  a  little,  pain- 
ful memory.  Oh,  God !  to  think  he  had  not  replied  to  her 
letter,  and  the  writing  of  it  had  given  her  such  pain. 

They  were  at  the  station  of  Kilaconnaghan.  Charlie 
Clarke  had  not  spoken  all  through  the  journey,  but  now 
he  came  up  to  her  indignantly,  as  if  very  vexed  for  being 
compelled  to  speak  to  her  at  all,  and  said :  "The  fare  is 
one  pound!" 

The  words  smote  her  with  a  little  sense  of  shock.  She 
had  been  expecting  something  by  way  of  climax.  She 
was  very  certain  in  her  consciousness  that  the  valley 
would  not  let  her  slip  thus  quietly  away. — A  pound  for 
the  journey,  although  it  was  Father  O'Keeffe  who  had 
engaged  the  car. — She  must  pay  this  religious  robber  a 
huge  price  for  the  drive.  There  rushed  through  her 
mind  momentarily  a  mad  flash  of  rebellion.  The  valley 
was  carrying  its  tyranny  a  little  too  far.  .  .  .  She  would 
not  pay.  .  .  .  But  almost  immediately  she  was  searching 
for  a  note  in  her  purse.  .  .  .  There  were  so  very  few  of 
them  now.  Yet  she  could  not  leave  the  valley  with  any 
further  little  stain  upon  her.  They  would  talk  of  a  thing 
like  this  for  years  and  years. 

With  a  deadly  silence  hanging  over  him  and  fearful 
thoughts  coming  into  his  mind  Myles  Shannon  had  kept 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     269 

himself  and  his  nephew  Ulick  at  work  all  through  the 
day.  After  tea  in  the  lonely  dining-room  he  fetched  in 
his  inky  account  books,  which  had  been  neglected  for 
many  a  month.  His  nephew  would  here  have  work  to 
occupy  him  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening  and  prob- 
ably far  into  the  night.  Ulick  was  glad  of  the  task,  for 
his  mind  was  very  far  from  being  at  ease. 

Then  Mr.  Shannon  took  £100  from  the  old-fashioned 
bureau  in  the  parlor,  which  held,  with  the  other  things, 
all  his  papers  and  accounts,  and  while  the  evening  was 
yet  high  went  down  towards  the  house  of  Sergeant  Mc- 
Goldrick  to  see  Rebecca  Kerr.  Around  a  bend  of  the 
road  he  encountered  Charlie  Clarke  on  his  way  back  from 
Kilaconnaghan,  where  he  had  been  delayed  upon  bazaar 
business. 

The  saintly  chauffeur  at  once  put  on  the  brakes.  This 
was  Mr.  Myles  Shannon  and  some  one  worth  speaking  to. 
He  bowed  a  groveling  salute. 

"You're  out  pretty  late?"  said  Mr.  Shannon. 

* '  Oh,  yes ! "  And  then  he  went  on  to  describe  his  work 
of  the  evening.  He  felt  inclined  to  offer  his  condolence 
to  Mr.  Shannon  in  a  most  respectful  whisper,  but  thought 
better  of  it  at  the  last  moment. 

' '  And  no  one  knows  where  she  has  gone  ? ' ' 

"No  one.     She  has  disappeared  from  the  valley." 

' '  She  went  away  very  suddenly. ' ' 

"Yes,  Father  O'Keeffe  saw  that,  in  the  public  interest, 
she  should  disappear  after  this  fashion.  The  motor  was 
a  help,  you  know." 

Charlie  Clarke  offered  to  drive  Mr.  Shannon  to  his 
home.  No  word  passed  between  them  as  they  drew  up 
the  avenue  to  the  lonely  house  among  the  trees. 


270     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

In  the  train,  moving  on  towards  Dublin,  Rebecca  Kerr 
had  just  opened  the  letter  from  Master  Donnellan.  It 
contained  a  £5  note.  .  .  .  This  was  like  a  cry  of  mercy 
and  pardon  for  the  valley.  .  .  .  The  rich  fields  of  Meath 
were  racing  by. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THERE  was  a  curious  hush  about  the  lake  next  even- 
ing, although  the  little  cottage  of  Hughie  Murtagh 
was  swept  by  winds  which  stirred  mournfully  through 
all  the  bright  abundance  of  early  summer.  Even  the 
orange-blossoms  of  the  furze  seemed  to  put  on  an  aspect 
of  surrender.  There  was  no  challenge  in  their  color 
now;  they  looked  almost  white  against  a  somber  sunset. 
John  Brennan  moped  about  among  the  fir-trees.  He 
came  to  a  stand-still  by  one  that  had  begun  to  decay 
and  which  was  even  more  mournful  in  its  failure  to  con- 
tribute another  plumed  head  to  the  general  effect  of 
mourning.  But  it  seemed  to  shake  enraged  at  this  im- 
potence in  its  poor  foundation  over  the  deserted  warren, 
from  which  Shamesy  Golliher  had  long  since  driven  the 
little  rabbits  towards  that  dark  Chicago  of  slaughter 
which  was  represented  to  them  by  Garradrimna. 

The  same  color  of  desolation  was  upon  the  reeds  which 
separated  him  from  the  water.  The  water  itself  had, 
beneath  its  pretense  of  brightness  upon  the  surface,  the 
appearance  of  ooze,  as  if  it  had  come  washing  over  the 
slime  of  dead  things. 

It  was  here  that  John  Brennan  had  come  to  wait  for 
Ulick  Shannon,  and,  as  he  waited,  his  mood  became  that 
of  his  surroundings.  ...  He  fell  to  running  over  what 
had  happened  to  him.  Alternately,  in  the  swirl  of  his 
consciousness,  it  appeared  as  the  power  of  the  valley  and 
271 


272     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

as  the  Hand  of  God.  Yet,  whatever  it  might  be  in  truth, 
this  much  was  certain.  It  had  reduced  his  life  to  ruins. 
It  was  a  fearful  thing,  and  he  shuddered  a  little  while  he 
endeavored  to  produce  a  clear  picture  of  it  for  the  chas- 
tisement as  well  as  the  morbid  excitement  of  his  imagina- 
tion. 

But  there  came  instead  a  far  different  picture,  which 
seemed  to  have  the  effect  of  lifting  for  a  moment  the 
surrounding  gloom.  He  saw  Rebecca  Kerr  again  as  upon 
many  an  afternoon  they  had  met.  For  one  brave  moment 
he  strove  to  recover  the  fine  feeling  that  had  filled  him 
at  those  times.  But  it  would  not  come.  Something  had 
happened,  something  terrible  which  soiled  and  spoiled 
her  forever. 

For  love  of  her  he  had  dreamed  even  unto  the  desire 
of  defeating  his  mother's  love.  And  yet  there  was  no 
triumph  in  his  heart  now,  nothing  save  defeat  and  a  great 
weariness.  Neither  his  mother  nor  Rebecca  Kerr  were 
any  longer  definite  hopes  upon  which  his  mind  might 
dwell.  .  .  .  His  thoughts  were  running  altogether  upon 
Ulick  Shannon.  It  was  for  Ulick  he  waited  now  in  this 
lonely,  wind-swept  place,  like  any  villain  he  had  ever 
seen  depicted  upon  the  cover  of  a  penny  dreadful  in 
Phillips 's  window  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  now  saw  him- 
self fixed  in  his  own  imagination  after  this  fashion. 
Ulick  Shannon  would  soon  come.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
this,  for  a  definite  appointment  had  been  made  during 
the  day.  He  had  remained  at  home  from  the  college  in 
Ballinamult  to  bring  it  about.  Soon  they  would  be  en- 
deavoring to  enter  what  must  be  the  final  and  tragic  bye- 
way  of  their  story.  And  it  must  be  all  so  dreadfuly  in- 
teresting, this  ending  he  had  planned.  .  .  .  Now  the 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     278 

water  came  flowing  towards  him  more  rapidly  as  if  to 
hurry  the  tragedy.  It  came  more,  thickly  and  muddily 
and  with  long,  billowy  strides  as  if  it  yearned  to  gather 
some  other  body  still  holding  life  to  its  wild  breast.  Its 
waters  kept  flowing  as  if  from  some  wide  wound  that 
ached  and  would  not  be  satisfied;  that  bled  and  called 
aloud  for  blood  forever. 

Now  also  the  evening  shadows  were  beginning  to  creep 
down  the  hills  and  with  them  a  deeper  hush  was  coming 
upon  the  wild  longing  of  all  things.  Yet  it  was  no  hush 
of  peace,  but  rather  the  concentration  of  some  horrible 
purpose  upon  one  place. 

"I  am  going  away  on  Friday,"  Ulick  had  written  in 
one  of  the  two  notes  that  had  been  exchanged  between 
them  by  the  messenger  during  the  day,  "and  I  would 
like  to  see  you  for  what  must,  unfortunately,  be  the  last 
time.  I  am  slipping  away  unknown  to  my  uncle  or  to 
any  one,  and  it  is  hardly  probable  that  I  will  be  seen 
in  these  parts  again." 

At  length  he  beheld  the  approach  of  Ulick  down  the 
long  Hill  of  Annus.  .  .  .  His  spirit  thrilled  within  him 
and  flamed  again  into  a  white  flame  of  love  for  the  girl 
who  was  gone.  .  .  .  And  coming  hither  was  the  man  who 
had  done  this  thing.  .  .  .  The  thickest  shadows  of  the 
evening  would  soon  be  gathered  closely  about  the  scene 
they  were  to  witness.  .  .  .  The  very  reeds  were  rustling 
now  in  dread. 

The  lake  was  deep  here  at  the  edge  of  the  water.  .  .  . 
And  in  the  rabbit-warren  beneath  his  feet  were  the  heavy 
pieces  of  lead  piping  he  had  transported  in  the  night. 
He  had  taken  them  from  his  father's  stock  of  plumber's 
materials,  that  moldy,  unused  stock  which  had  so  long 


274     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

lain  in  the  back  yard  and  which,  in  a  distant  way, 
possessed  an  intimate  connection  with  this  heaped-up 
story.  ...  In  a  little  instant  of  peculiar  consciousness  he 
wondered  whether  it  would  be  pliable  enough.  .  .  .  There 
were  pieces  for  the  legs  and  pieces  for  the  arms  which 
would  enfold  those  members  as  in  a  weighty  coffin.  .  .  . 
And  hidden  nearer  to  his  hand  was  the  strangely-shaped, 
uncouth  weapon  his  father  had  used  many  a  time  with 
such  lack  of  improvement  upon  the  school  slates  and  with 
which  one  might  kill  a  man.  .  .  .  The  body  would  rest 
well  down  there  beneath  the  muddy  waters.  .  .  .  There 
would  be  no  possibility  of  suspicion  falling  upon  him, 
for  the  story  of  Rebecca  Kerr's  disgrace  and  Ulick  Shan- 
non's connection  with  it  had  already  got  about  the  valley. 
.  .  .  He  had  been  listening  to  his  mother  telling  it  to 
people  all  day.  .  .  .  Ulick 's  disappearance,  in  a  way  self- 
effacing  and  unnamed,  was  hourly  expected.  This  op- 
portunity appeared  the  one  kind  trick  of  Fate  which  had 
been  so  unkind  to  the  passionate  yearnings  of  John 
Brennan. 

But  Ulick  Shannon  was  by  his  side,  and  they  were  talk- 
ing again  as  friends  of  different  things  in  the  light  way 
of  old.  .  .  .  Their  talk  moved  not  at  all  within  the 
shadows  of  things  about  to  happen  presently.  .  .  .  But 
the  shadows  were  closing  in,  and  very  soon  they  must 
fall  and  lie  heavily  upon  all  things  here  by  the  lake. 

"Isn't  it  rather  wonderful,  Brennan,  that  I  should  be 
going  hence  through  the  power  of  a  woman  ?  It  is  very 
strange  how  they  always  manage  to  have  their  revenge, 
how  they  beat  us  in  the  long  run  no  matter  how  we  may 
plume  ourselves  on  a  triumph  that  we  merely  fancy. 
Although  we  may  degrade  and  rob  them  of  their  treasure, 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     275 

ours  is  the  final  punishment.  Do  you  remember  how  I 
told  you  on  that  day  we  were  at  the  'North  Leinster 
Arms, '  in  Ballinamult,  there  was  no  trusting  any  woman  ? 
Not  even  your  own  mother!  Now  this  Rebecca  Kerr, 
she—" 

The  sentence  was  never  finished.  John  Brennan  had 
not  spoken,  but  his  hand  had  moved  twice — to  lift  the 
uncouth  weapon  from  the  foot  of  the  tree  and  again  to 
strike  the  blow.  .  .  .  The  mold  of  unhappy  clay  from 
which  the  words  of  Ulick  had  just  coine  was  stilled  for- 
ever. The  great  cry  which  struggled  to  break  from  the 
lips  resulted  only  in  a  long-drawn  sigh  that  was  like  a 
queer  swoon.  The  mournful  screech  of  a  wild  bird  fly- 
ing low  over  the  lake  drowned  the  little  gust  of  sound. 
.  .  .  Then  the  last  lone  silence  fell  between  the  two  young 
men  who  had  once  been  most  dear  companions. 

No  qualms  of  any  kind  came  to  the  breast  of  John 
Brennan.  He  had  hardened  his  heart  between  the  leap- 
ing flames  of  Love  and  Hate,  and  there  was  upon  him  now 
the  feeling  of  one  who  has  done  a  fine  thing.  He  was  in 
the  moment  of  his  triumph,  yet  he  was  beginning  to  be 
amazed  by  his  sudden  power  and  the  result  of  his  deci- 
sion. .  .  .  That  he,  John  Brennan,  should  have  had  it  in 
him  to  murder  his  friend.  .  .  .  But  no,  it  was  his  enemy 
he  had  murdered,  the  man  who  had  desecrated  the  beauty 
of  the  world.  .  .  .  And  there  was  a  rare  grandeur  in 
what  he  had  done.  It  was  a  thing  of  beauty  snatched 
from  the  red  hands  of  Death. 

Yet  as  he  went  about  his  preparations  for  submerging 
the  body  he  felt  something  akin  to  disgust  for  this  the 
mean  business  of  the  murder.  .  .  .  Here  was  where  the 
beauty  that  had  been  his  deed  snapped  finally  from  exist- 


276     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

ence  in  his  consciousness  and  disappeared  from  him. 

Henceforth  gray  thought  after  gray  thought  came 
tumbling  into  his  mind.  Utyck  had  not  been  a  bad  fellow. 
He  had  tried  to  be  kind  to  him — all  the  motor-drives  and 
the  walks  and  talks  they  had  had.  Even  the  bits  of  days 
and  nights  spent  together  in  Garradrimna.  .  .  .  And  how 
was  Ulick  to  know  of  his  affection  for  Rebecca  Kerr? 
There  had  never  been  the  faintest  statement  of  the  fact 
between  them;  his  whole  manner  and  conversation  and 
the  end  for  which  he  was  intended  forbade  any  sus- 
picion of  the  kind.  In  fact  to  have  had  such  a  doubt 
would  have  been  a  sin  in  the  eyes  of  many  a  Catholic. 
.  .  .  The  legs  and  arms  were  well  weighted  now.  .  .  . 
This  might  not  have  happened  if  his  mother  had  been 
attended  in  the  right  spirit  of  filial  obedience.  .  .  .  But 
with  the  arrogance  of  youth,  which  he  now  realized  for 
the  first  time,  he  had  placed  himself  above  her  opinion 
and  done  what  he  had  desired  at  the  moment.  And 
why  had  he  done  so?  ...  She  would  seem  to  have  had 
foreboding  of  all  this  in  the  way  she  had  looked  upon  him 
so  tenderly  with  her  tired  eyes  many  a  time  since  his 
memorable  home-coming  last  summer.  She  had  always 
been  so  fearfully  anxious.  .  .  .  Here  must  have  been  the 
melancholy  end  she  had  seen  at  the  back  of  all  dreaming. 
.  .  .  He  could  feel  that  sad  look  clearly,  all  dimmed  by 
dark  presentiments. 

The  body  was  a  great  weight.  He  strove  to  lift  it  in 
his  arms  in  such  a  way  that  his  clothes  might  not  be  soiled 
by  the  blood.  .  .  .  His  face  was  very  near  the  pale,  dead 
face  with  the  red  blood  now  clotting  amongst  the  hair. 
...  He  was  almost  overpowered  by  his  burden  as  he 
dragged  it  to  the  water  'sedge.  .  .  .  It  was  a  very  fearful 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS    877 

thing  to  look  at  just  as  the  water  closed  over  it  with  a  low, 
gurgling  sound,  as  if  of  mourning,  like  the  cry  of  the  bird 
in  the  moment  the  murder  had  been  done. 

As  he  staggered  back  from  the  sighing  reeds  he  noticed 
that  the  ground  was  blood-drenched  beneath  the  tree. 
.  .  .  But  he  was  doing  the  thing  most  thoroughly.  In  a 
frenzy  of  precautionary  industry  he  began  to  hack  away 
the  earth  with  the  slating  implement  very  much  as 
Shamesy  Golliher  might  hack  it  in  search  of  a  rabbit. 

Later  he  seemed  to  put  on  the  very  appearance  of 
Shamesy  himself  as,  with  bent  body,  he  slouched  away 
across  the  ridge  of  the  world.  He  too  had  just  effected  a 
piece  of  slaughter  and  Garradrimna  seemed  to  call  him. 


XXXII 

WHEN  he  came  out  upon  the  valley  road  he  was  no 
longer  the  admirable  young  man  he  had  been  less 
than  a  year  since.  He  was  a  broken  thing,  and  he  was 
stained  by  another's  blood.  He  was  marked  eternally 
by  what  he  had  done,  and  there  was  upon  him  a  degrada- 
tion unspeakable.  He  was  an  offense  against  existence 
and  against  the  gathering,  blessed  gloom  of  the  quiet 
evening.  ...  He  had  murdererd  one  who  had  been  his 
friend,  and  it  was  a  thing  he  might  never  be  able  to 
forget.  The  body,  with  all  the  lovely  life  so  recently 
gone  from  it,  he  had  weighted  and  sunk  beneath  the  sur- 
face of  the  lake.  ...  It  was  down  there  now,  a  poor, 
dead  thing  among  the  ooze  of  dead  things  from  which 
the  water  had  taken  its  color  and  quality.  The  wild 
spirit  that  had  been  Ulick  Shannon,  so  contradictory  in 
its  many  aspects,  was  now  soaring  lightly  aloft  upon  the 
wings  of  clean  winds  and  he,  John  Brennan,  who  had 
effected  this  grand  release,  felt  the  weights  still  heavy 
about  his  heart. 

He  came  on  a  group  of  children  playing  by  the  road- 
side. It  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  driven  across  his 
path  to  thwart  him  with  their  innocence.  He  instantly 
remembered  that  other  evening  when  he  had  been  pained 
to  hear  them  express  the  ugly,  uncharitable  notions  of 
their  parents  regarding  a  child  of  another  religion. 
Now  they  were  playing  merrily  as  God  had  intended 
278 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     279 

them  to  play,  and  religion,  with  its  tyranny  of  compul- 
sion towards  thoughts  of  death  and  sin,  seemed  distant 
from  them,  and  distant  was  it  from  him  too.  His  mind 
was  empty  of  any  thought.  Would  no  kindly  piece  of 
imagination  come  down  to  cool  his  spirit  with  its  grace 
or  lift  from  his  heart  the  oppression  of  the  leaden  weights 
he  had  bound  about  the  body  of  Ulick  Shannon?  .  .  . 
At  last  he  had  remembrance  of  his  mother.  It  had  been 
borne  in  upon  him  during  some  of  his  lonely  cycle-rides 
to  and  from  Ballinamult  that  things  should  not  be,  some- 
how, as  they  were.  He  was  moving  along  exalted  ways 
while  his  mother  labored  in  lonely  silence  at  her  machine. 
.  .  .  Where  was  the  money  coming  from?  Such  an  un- 
productive state  as  his  required  money  for  its  upkeep. 
His  father  was  no  toiler,  but  she  was  always  working 
there  alone  in  the  lonely  room.  Her  hands  were  grown 
gnarled  and  hard  through  her  years  of  labor.  .  .  .  Just 
presently  she  was  probably  discussing  a  dismal  matter 
of  ways  and  means  with  some  woman  of  the  valley,  say- 
ing as  she  had  said  through  the  long  years : 

"Thank  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother  this  night,  I  still 
have  me  hands.  Aye,  that's  what  I  was  just  saying  to 
Mrs.  So  and  So  this  morning — Thank  God  I  still  have  me 
hands!" 

Thus  she  was  going  on  now,  he  imagined,  as  he  had 
always  heard  her,  a  pathetic  figure  sitting  there  and 
looking  painfully  through  the  heavy,  permanent  mist  that 
was  falling  down  upon  her  eyes.  And  yet  it  was  not 
thus  she  really  was  at  this  moment.  For  although  it  was 
a  woman  who  held  her  company,  there  was  no  mood  of 
peace  between  them.  It  was  Marse  Prendergast  who  was 
with  her,  and  she  was  proceeding  busily  with  her  eternal 


280     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

whine.  Mrs.  Brennan  was  now  disturbed  in  her  mind 
and  fearful  of  the  great  calamity  that  might  happen. 
While  she  had  bravely  maintained  the  money  in  the  little 
chest  upstairs  there  had  lingered,  in  spite  of  every  afflic- 
tion, a  sense  of  quietness  and  independence.  But  now 
she  was  without  help  and  as  one  distraught.  Of  late  this 
gibbering  old  woman  had  obtained  a  certain  power  over 
her,  and  a  considerable  portion  of  the  once  proud  Mrs. 
Brennan  had  fallen  finally  away.  Although,  at  unac- 
countable moments,  her  strong  pride  would  spring  up 
to  dazzle  the  people  of  the  valley,  she  did  not  now  possess 
that  remarkable  imperviousness  which  had  so  distin- 
guished her  attitude  towards  life.  Now  she  was  in  a 
condition  of  disintegration,  unable  to  maintain  an  an- 
tagonism or  hide  a  purpose.  The  old  ruined  woman,  the 
broken  shuiler  of  the  roads,  was  beginning  to  behold 
the  ruins  of  another  woman,  the  ruins  of  Mrs.  Brennan, 
who  had  once  been  so  "thick"  and  proud. 
"So  you  won't  hearken  to  me  request?" 
1 '  I  can 't,  Marse  dear.  I  have  no  money  to  give  you ! ' ' 
This  was  a  true  word,  for  the  little  store  upstairs  had 
gone  this  way  and  that.  Tommy  "Williams  had  had  to 
be  given  his  interest,  and  although  people  might  think 
that  John  was  getting  his  education  for  charity,  no  one 
knew  better  than  she  the  heavy  fees  of  the  college  in 
Ballinamult.  Besides,  he  must  keep  up  a  good  appear- 
ance in  the  valley. 

But  when  Marse  Prendergast  made  a  demand  she  knew 
no  reason  and  could  make  no  allowance. 

"Well,  Nan,  me  dear,  I  must  do  me  duty.  I  must 
speak  out  when  you  can't  bribe  me  to  be  silent.  I  must 
do  a  horrid  piece  of  business  this  night.  I  must  turn 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     281 

a  son  against  his  mother.  Yes,  that  must  be  the  way  of 
it  now,  a  son  turned  for  good  against  his  mother.  For 
surely  there  could  be  no  pardon  in  his  grand,  holy  eyes 
for  what  you  were  once  upon  a  time.  But  let  me  tell 
you  this,  that  I'd  have  acquainted  him  anyhow,  for  I'd 
not  have  gone  to  me  grave  with  that  sin  on  me  no  matter 
what.  They  say  it  isn't  right  to  offer  a  son  to  God  where 
there's  after  being  any  big  blemish  in  the  family,  and 
that  if  you  do  a  woful  misfortune  or  a  black  curse  comes 
of  it.  And  sure  that  was  the  quare,  big  blemish  in  your 
family,  Nan  Byrne,  the  quarest  blemish  ever  was." 

Mrs.  Brennan  began  to  cry.  She  seemed  to  have  come 
at  last  to  the  end  of  all  her  long  attempt  to  brazen 
things  out.  .  .  .  Marse  Prendergast  was  not  slow  to  ob- 
serve this  acceptance  of  defeat,  and  saw  that  now  surely 
was  her  time  to  be  hard  and  bitter.  She  was  growing 
so  old,  a  withered  stump  upon  the  brink  of  years,  and 
there  was  upon  her  an  enormous  craving  for  a  little 
money.  People  were  even  driven,  by  her  constant  whine 
for  this  thing  and  that,  to  say  how  she  had  a  little  store 
of  her  own  laid  by  which  she  gloated  over  with  a  wicked 
and  senile  delight.  And  for  what,  in  God's  name,  was 
she  hoarding  and  she  an  old,  lone  woman  with  the  life 
just  cross-wise  in  her?  .  .  .  And  it  was  always  Mrs. 
Brennan  whom  she  had  visited  with  her  singular  and 
special  persecution. 

"I  suppose  now  you  think  you're  the  quare,  clever 
one  to  be  going  on  with  your  refusals  from  day  to  day. 
I  suppose  you  think  I  don't  know  that  you  have  a  chesht 
full  of  money  that  you  robbed  from  poor  Henry  Shannon, 
God  be  good  to  him,  when  he  used  to  be  coming  running 
to  see  you,  the  foolish  fellow ! ' ' 


282     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

"As  God's  me  judge,  Marse  Prendergast,  I  haven't 
e'er  a  penny  in  the  house.  I'm  in  debt  in  Garradrimna 
this  blessed  minute,  and  that's  as  sure  as  you're  there!" 

"  Go  on  out  of  that  with  your  talk  of  debts,  and  you  to 
be  sending  your  son  John  through  his  college  courses 
before  all  our  eyes  like  any  fine  lady  in  the  land.  And 
think  of  all  the  grand  money  you'll  be  getting  bye  and 
bye  in  rolls  and  cartloads!" 

"Aye,  with  the  help  of  God!" 

Even  in  the  moment  of  her  torment  Mrs.  Brennan 
could  not  restrain  her  vanity  of  her  son. 

"And  to  think  of  all  that  being  before  you  now  and 
still  you  keep  up  your  mean  refusals  of  the  little  thing 
I  ask,"  said  the  old  woman  with  the  pertinacious  unrea- 
sonableness of  age. 

"I  haven't  got  the  money,  Marse,  God  knows  I 
haven't." 

"God  knows  nothing,  Nan  Byrne,  only  your  shocking 
villainy.  And  'tis  the  great  sin  for  you  surely.  And  if 
God  knows  this,  it  is  for  some  one  else  to  know  your  sin. 
It  is  for  your  son  John  to  know  the  kind  of  a  mother 
that  he  loves  and  honors. ' ' 

Mrs.  Brennan  had  heard  this  threat  on  many  an  occa- 
sion yet  even  now  the  repetition  of  it  made  her  grow  sud- 
denly pale.  .  .  .  An  expression  of  sickliness  was  upon 
her  face  seen  even  through  the  shadowed  sewing-room. 
Always  this  thought  had  haunted  her  that  some  time 
John  might  come  to  know. 

"Long  threatening  comes  at  last!"  was  a  phrase  that 
had  always  held  for  her  the  darkest  meaning.  She  could 
never  listen  to  any  woman  make  use  of  it  without  shud- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     283 

dering  violently.  Marse  Prendergast  had  threatened  so 
often  and  often. 

"Ah,  no,  Nan  Byrne,  this  is  something  I  could  never 
let  pass.  And  all  the  long  days  I  saw  you  contriving 
here  at  the  machine,  and  you  so  anxious  and  attentive, 
sure  I  used  to  be  grinning  to  myself  at  the  thoughts 
of  the  bloody  fine  laugh  I  'd  be  having  at  you  some  day. 
I  used,  that's  God's  truth!" 

It  seemed  terrible  to  be  told  the  story  of  this  hate 
that  had  been  so  well  hidden,  now  springing  up  before 
her  in  a  withering  blast  of  ingratitude  and  being  borne  to 
her  understanding  upon  such  quiet  words.  .  .  .  She 
sighed  ever  so  slightly,  and  her  lips  moved  gently  in  the 
aspiration  of  a  prayer. 

"0  Jesus,  Mary  and  Joseph!"  was  what  she  said. 

The  pious  ejaculation  seemed  to  leap  at  once  towards 
the  accomplishment  of  a  definite  purpose,  for  immediately 
it  had  the  effect  of  moving  Marse  Prendergast  towards  the 
door. 

' '  I  'm  going  now ! ' ' 

The  words  were  spoken  with  an  even  more  chilling 
quietness.  Mrs.  Brennan  made  a  noise  as  if  to  articulate 
something,  but  no  words  would  come  from  her. 

"And  let  you  not  be  thinking  that  'tis  only  this  little 
thing  I'm  going  to  tell  him,  for  there's  a  whole  lot  more. 
I'm  going  to  tell  him  all  I  know,  all  that  I  didn't  tell  you 
through  the  length  of  the  years,  though,  God  knows,  it 
has  been  often  burning  me  to  tell.  .  .  .  You  think,  I  sup- 
pose, as  clever  as  you  are,  that  the  child  was  buried  in  the 
garden.  Well,  that 's  not  a  fact,  nor  the  color  of  a  fact, 
for  all  I've  made  you  afraid  of  it  so  often.  .  .  .  Grace 


284     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

Gogarty  had  no  child  of  her  own  for  Henry  Shannon. 
UlicJc  Shannon  is  your  own  child  that  was  sold  be  your 
ould  mother  for  a  few  pound!" 

"That's  a  lie  for  you,  Marse  Prendergast ! " 
' '  'Tis  no  lie  at  all  I  'm  telling  you,  but  the  naked  truth. 
I  suppose  neither  of  them  lads,  Ulick  nor  John,  ever 
guessed  the  reason  why  they  were  so  fond  of  one  another, 
but  that  was  the  reason ;  and  'tis  I  used  to  enjoy  seeing 
them  together  and  I  knowing  it  well.  Isn't  it  curious 
now  to  say  that  you're  the  mother  of  a  blackguard  and 
the  mother  of  the  makings  of  a  priest  ?  .  .  .  Mebbe  you  'd 
give  me  the  little  bit  of  money  now?  Mebbe?" 

Mrs.  Brennan  did  not  answer.  Big  tears  were  rolling 
down  her  cheeks  one  after  the  other.  .  .  .  Her  heart  had 
been  rent  by  this  sudden  flash  of  information.  Even  the 
last  remaining  stronghold  of  her  vanity  had  been  swept 
away.  That  she,  who  had  claim  in  her  own  estimation 
to  be  considered  the  wise  woman  of  the  valley,  could  not 
have  long  since  guessed  at  the  existence  of  a  fact  so  inti- 
mate. .  .  .  Her  heart  was  wounded,  not  unto  death,  but 
immortally.  .  .  .  Her  son!  Ulick  Shannon  her  son! 
0  Mother  of  God! 

John  Brennan  was  still  in  his  agony  as  he  saw  the 
long-tongued  shuiler  coming  towards  him  down  the  road. 
She  was  making  little  journeys  into  the  ditches  as  she 
came  along.  She  was  gathering  material  for  a  fire  al- 
though every  bush  was  green.  .  .  .  She  was  always  shiv- 
ering at  the  fall  of  night.  The  appearance  of  the  chil- 
dren had  filled  him  with  speculations  as  to  where  he 
might  look  for  some  comfort.  .  .  .  Could  it  be  derived 
from  the  precepts  of  religion  translated  into  acts  of 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     285 

human  kindness?  Momentarily  he  was  confused  as  he 
attempted  to  realize  some  act  of  goodness  to  be  done  here 
and  now.  He  was  unable  to  see. 

Old  Marse  Prendergast,  coming  towards  him  slowly, 
was  the  solitary  link  connecting  his  mind  with  any 
thought.  To  him  she  appeared  the  poor  old  woman  in 
need  of  pity  who  was  gathering  green  sticks  from  the 
hedge-rows  to  make  her  a  fire  which  would  not  kindle. 
He  remembered  that  morning,  now  some  time  distant, 
when  he  had  helped  her  carry  home  a  bundle  of  her  sticks 
on  his  way  from  Mass.  It  had  appeared  to  him  then,  as 
it  did  now,  a  Christ-like  action,  but  Ms  mother  had  re- 
buked him  for  it.  Yet  he  had  always  wished  his  mother 
to  take  the  place  of  Mary  when  he  tried  to  snatch  some 
comfort  from  the  Gospel  story.  Soon  he  was  by  her  side 
speaking  as  kindly  as  he  could.  .  .  .  Great  fear  was 
already  upon  him. 

"God  bless  you,  me  little  Johneen,  me  little  son;  sure 
'tis  yourself  has  the  decent,  kind  heart  to  be  taking  pity 
upon  the  old.  Arrah  now !  You're  alone  and  lonely  this 
evening,  I  notice,  for  your  friend  is  gone  from  you.  It 
bees  lonely  when  one  loses  one's  comrade.  Ah,  'tis  many 
a  year  and  more  since  I  lost  me  comrade  through  the 
valley  of  life.  Since  Marks  Prendergast,  the  good  hus- 
band of  me  heart  and  the  father  of  me  children,  was  lost 
on  me.  Sure  he  was  murdered  on  me  one  St.  Patrick's 
Day  fair  in  Garradrimna.  He  was  ripped  open  with  a 
knife  and  left  there  upon  the  street  in  his  blood  for  me 
to  see.  .  .  .  That's  the  way,  that's  the  way,  me  sweet 
gosoon ;  some  die  clean  and  quiet,  and  some  go  away  in 
their  blood  like  the  way  they  came." 

Had  she  devoted  much  time  and  skill  to  it  she  could 


286     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

not  have  produced  a  more  dire  effect  upon  John  than 
by  this  accidental  turn  of  her  talk.  .  .  .  The  scene  by  the 
lakeside  swam  clearly  into  his  eyes  again. 

"I  suppose  your  good  comrade  is  gone  away?" 

"Whom,  what?" 

"Ulick  Shannon,  to  be  sure.  I  suppose  he's  after 
slipping  away  be  this  time  anyway. ' ' 

"Aye,  he's  he's  gone  away." 

' '  That  was  what  you  might  call  the  nice  lad.  And  it 
was  no  wonder  at  all  that  you  were  so  much  attached  to 
one  another.  Never  a  bit  of  wonder  at  all.  .  .  .  Sure 
you  were  like  brothers." 

John  was  so  solicitous  in  maintaining  his  silence  that 
he  did  not  notice  the  old  woman's  terrible  sententious- 
ness.  ...  He  went  on  pulling  green  sticks  from  the 
hedge  and  placing  them  very  carefully  by  the  side  of 
those  she  had  already  gathered. 

"Just  like  brothers.  That's  what  ye  were,  just  like 
brothers.  He,  he,  he ! " 

Although  he  did  not  detect  the  note  of  laughter  in  it 
that  was  hollow  and  a  mockery,  he  was  nevertheless  ap- 
palled by  what  should  appear  as  a  commendation  of  him 
who  was  gone.  .  .  .  He  felt  himself  shaking  even  as  the 
leaves  in  the  hedgerows  were  being  shaken  by  the  light 
wind  of  evening. 

"Like  brothers,  avic  machree." 

Even  still  he  did  not  reply. 

"Like  brothers,  I  say,  and  that's  the  whole  story. 
For  ye  were  brothers.  At  least  you  were  of  the  one 
blood,  because  ye  had  the  same  woman  for  the  mother 
»f  ye  both." 

Certainly  she  was  raving,  but  her  words  were  having 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     287 

an  unusual  effect  upon  him.  He  was  keeping  closer  to 
the  hedge  as  if  trying  to  hide  his  face. 

"To-night,  me  fine  gosoon,  I'm  going  to  do  a  terrible 
thing.  I'm  going  to  tell  you  who  your  mother  is,  and 
then  you'll  know  a  quare  story.  You'll  know  that  Ulick 
Shannon,  good  luck  to  him  wherever  he's  gone,  was  noth- 
ing less  than  your  own  brother.  ...  It  is  she  that  is 
after  forcing  me  on  to  it  be  her  penurious  and  miserly 
ways.  I  didn't  want  to  tell  ye,  John!  I  say,  I  didn't 
want  to  tell  ye!" 

Her  old,  cracked  voice  trailed  away  into  a  high  screech. 
John  Brenuan  was  like  a  man  stunned  by  a  blow  as  he 
waited  for  her  to  speak  the  rest  of  the  story. 

"Ulick  Shannon's  father,  Henry  Shannon,  was  the  one 
your  mother  loved.  She  never  cared  for  your  father,  nor 
he  for  her.  So  you  might  say  you  are  no  love  child. 
But  there  was  a  love  child  in  it  to  be  sure,  and  that  child 
was  Ulick  Shannon.  Your  mother  was  his  mother.  He 
was  born  out  of  wedlock  surely,  but  he  happened  handy, 
and  was  put  in  the  place  of  Grace  Gogarty's  child  that 
died  and  it  a  weeshy,  young  thing.  ...  It  was  your 
grandmother  that  sold  him,  God  forgive  her,  if  you  want 
to  know,  for  I  was  watching  the  deed  being  done.  .  .  . 
Your  mother  always  thought  the  bastard  was  murdered 
in  the  house  and  buried  in  the  garden.  I  used  to  be  for- 
ever tormenting  her  by  making  her  think  that  only 
it  was  me  could  tell.  There  was  no  one  knew  it  for 
certain  in  the  whole  world,  only  me  and  them  that  were 
dead  and  gone.  So  your  mother  could  not  have  found 
out  from  any  one  but  me,  and  she  might  never  have 
found  out  only  for  the  way  she  used  to  be  refusing  me  of 
me  little  dues.  .  .  .  But  I  can  tell  you  that  she  found 


288     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

out  this  evening  how  she  was  the  mother  of  Ulick 
Shannon,  and  that  you,  the  beloved  son  she  cherished 
in  her  heart  and  put  on  in  all  her  pride  to  be  a  priest 
of  God,  was  a  near  blood  relation  of  the  boy  she  was 
never  done  but  running  down.  The  boy  that  she,  above 
all  others,  with  her  prate  and  gab  made  a  drunkard  of 
in  the  first  place,  and  then  rushed  on,  be  always  talk- 
ing of  the  like  about  him,  to  do  great  harm  to  this  girl. 
But  sure  it  was  myself  that  could  not  blame  him  at  all, 
for  it  was  in  him  both  ways,  the  poor,  unfortunate 
gosoon!" 

There  was  no  reason  to  doubt  the  old  shuiler's  story, 
with  such  passionate  vehemence  did  it  fall  from  her. 
And  its  coherence  was  very  convincing.  It  struck  him 
as  a  greater  blow  which  almost  obliterated  his  under- 
standing. In  the  first  moment  he  could  stand  apart 
from  it  and  look  even  blindly  it  appeared  as  the  swift 
descent  of  Divine  vengeance  upon  him  for  what  he  had 
just  done.  .  .  .  He  moved  away,  his  mind  a  bursting 
tumult,  and  without  a  sight  in  his  eyes.  .  .  .  The  mock- 
ing laughter  of  Marse  Prendergast  rang  in  his  ears. 
Now  why  was  she  laughing  at  him  when  it  was  his  mother 
who  was  her  enemy? 

He  was  walking,  but  the  action  was  almost  unnoticed 
by  him.  He  was  moving  aimlessly  within  the  dark,  en- 
circling shadow  of  his  doom.  .  .  .  Yet  he  saw  that  he 
was  not  far  distant  from  Garradrimna.  .  .  .  The  last 
time  he  had  been  there  at  the  period  of  the  day  he  had 
been  in  company  with  Ulick  Shannon.  It  was  what  had 
sprung  out  of  those  comings  together  that  was  now 
responsible  for  this  red  ending.  ...  He  remembered 
also  how  the  port  wine  had  lifted  him  out  of  himself  and 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     289 

helped  him  to  see  Rebecca  Kerr.  .  .  .  The  windows  were 
squinting  through  the  gloom  as  he  went  the  road. 

There  was  stronger  drink  in  Garradrimna  and  pubs, 
of  greater  intensity  than  McDermott's.  There  was  "The 
World's  End,"  for  instance,  that  tavern  so  fantastically 
named  by  the  Hon.  Reginald  Moore  in  memory  of  an  inn 
of  the  same  name  that  had  struck  his  fancy  in  England. 
.  .  .  The  title  now  seemed  particularly  appropriate. 

It  was  towards  this  place  his  feet  were  moving.  In 
another  spell  of  thought  which  surprised  him  by  the  pre- 
caution it  exhibited,  he  remembered  that  his  father  would 
not  be  there;  for,  although  it  had  been  Ned  Brennan's 
famous  haunt  aforetime,  he  had  been  long  ago  forbidden 
its  doors.  It  was  in  this,  one  of  the  seven  places  of 
degradation  in  Garradrimna,  he  was  now  due  to  appear. 

He  went  very  timidly  up  to  the  back-door,  which 
opened  upon  a  little,  secluded  passage.  He  ordered  a 
glass  of  whiskey  from  the  greasy  barmaid  who  came 
to  attend  him.  ...  He  felt  for  the  money  so  carefully 
wrapped  in  tissue-paper  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  It  was 
a  bright  gold  sovereign  that  his  mother  had  given  him 
on  the  first  day  of  his  course  at  Ballinamult  College 
to  keep  against  any  time  he  might  be  called  upon  to 
show  off  the  fact  that  he  was  a  gentleman.  As  he  un- 
folded it  now,  from  the  careful  covering  in  which  she 
had  wrapped  it,  it  seemed  to  put  on  a  tragic  significance. 
...  He  was  fearfully  anxious  to  be  in  the  condition 
that  had  brought  him  his  vision  on  the  night  he  had  slept 
by  the  lake. 

He  drank  the  whiskey  at  one  gulp,  and  it  seemed  a 
long  time  until  the  barmaid  returned  with  the  change. 
Sovereigns  were  marvels  of  rare  appearance  at  "The 


290     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

World's  End."  He  thanked  her  and  called  for  another, 
paying  her  as  she  went.  She  was  remarkably  mannerly, 
for,  in  the  narrow  gloom  of  the  place,  she  took  him  to 
be  some  rich  stranger.  She  had  seen  the  color  of  his 
money  and  liked  it  well. 

The  whiskey  seemed  to  possess  magical  powers.  It 
rapidly  restored  him  to  a  mood  wherein  the  distress  that 
was  his  might  soon  appear  a  small  thing.  Yet  he  grew 
restless  with  the  urgency  that  was  upon  him  and  glanced 
around  in  search  of  a  distraction  for  his  galloping  brain. 
.  .  .  He  bent  down  and  peered  through  the  little 
aperture  which  opened  upon  the  public  bar  of  "The 
World's  End."  In  there  he  saw  a  man  in  a  heated 
atmosphere  and  enveloped  by  dense  clouds  of  tobacco- 
smoke.  They  were  those  who  had  come  in  the  roads  to 
forget  their  sweat  and  labor  in  the  black  joy  of  porter. 
Theirs  was  a  part  of  the  tragedy  of  the  fields,  but  it  was 
a  meaner  tragedy.  Yet  were  they  suddenly  akin  to  him. 
.  .  .  Through  the  lugubrious  expression  on  their  dark 
faces  a  sudden  light  was  shining.  It  was  the  light  as  if 
of  some  ecstasy.  A  desire  fell  upon  him  to  enter  into 
their  dream,  whatever  it  might  be.  ...  In  the  wild 
whirl  that  the  whiskey  had  whipped  up  in  his  brain 
there  now  came  a  sudden  lull.  It  was  a  lull  after  a 
great  crescendo,  as  in  Beethoven's  music.  ...  He  was 
hearing,  with  extraordinary  clearness,  what  they  were 
saying.  They  were  speaking  of  the  case  of  Ulick 
Shannon  and  Rebecca  Kerr.  These  names  were  linked 
inseparably  and  were  going  hand  in  hand  down  all  the 
byeways  of  their  talk.  .  .  .  They  were  sure  and  certain 
that  he  had  gone  away.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  him  in 
Garradrimna  this  evening.  That  put  the  cap  on  his 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     291 

guilt  surely.  Wasn't  she  the  grand  whipster,  and  she 
supposed  to  be  showing  a  good  example  and  teaching 
religion  to  the  childer  ?  A  nice  one  to  have  in  the  parish 
indeed !  It  was  easy  knowing  from  the  beginning  what 
she  was  and  the  fellow  she  struck  up  with — Henry 
Shannon's  son.  Wasn't  that  enough  for  you?  Henry 
Shannon,  who  was  the  best  blackguard  of  his  time !  .  .  . 
Just  inside,  and  very  near  to  John,  a  knot  of  men  were 
discussing  the  more  striking  aspects  of  the  powerful 
scandal.  .  .  .  They  were  recounting,  with  minute  detail, 
the  story  of  Nan  Byrne.  .  .  .  Wasn't  it  the  strangest 
thing  now  how  she  had  managed  more  or  less  to  live  it 
down?  But  people  would  remember  it  all  again  in  the 
light  of  this  thing.  What  Ulick  Shannon  had  done  now 
would  make  people  think  of  what  his  father  had  done, 
and  then  they  must  needs  remember  her.  .  .  .  And  to 
think  that  no  one  ever  knew  rightly  what  had  become  of 
the  child.  Some  there  were  who  would  tell  you  that 
her  sister,  Bridget  Mulvey,  and  her  mother,  Abigail 
Byrne,  buried  it  in  the  garden,  and  there  were  those 
who  would  tell  you  that  it  was  living  somewhere  at  the 
present  time.  .  .  .  Her  son  John  was  not  a  bad  sort,  but 
wasn't  it  the  greatest  crime  for  her  to  put  him  on  to  be  a 
priest  after  what  had  happened  her,  and  surely  no  good 
could  come  of  it?  ...  And  why  wouldn't  Ned  Bren- 
nan  know  of  it,  and  wasn't  it  that  and  nothing  else  that 
had  made  him  the  ruined  wreck  of  a  man  he  was?  Sure 
he'd  never  done  a  day's  good  since  the  night  Larry 
Cully  had  lashed  out  the  whole  story  for  his  benefit. 
And  wasn  't  it  quite  possible  that  some  one  would  be  bad 
enough  to  tell  John  himself  some  time,  or  the  ecclesiasti- 
cal authorities?  What  about  the  mee-aw  that  had  hap- 


292     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

pened  to  him  in  the  grand  college  in  England  that  so 
much  had  been  heard  of?  And  there  was  sure  to  be 
something  else  happening  before  he  was  through  the 
college  at  Ballinamult.  A  priest,  how  are  ye? 

The  whiskey  had  gone  to  his  head,  but,  as  he  listened, 
John  Brennan  felt  himself  grow  more  sober  than  he  had 
ever  before  been.  ...  So  this  was  the  supplement  to  the 
story  he  had  heard  a  while  ago.  And  now  that  he  knew 
the  whole  story  he  began  to  tremble.  Continually  flash- 
ing across  his  mind  were  the  words  of  the  man  who  was 
dead  and  silent  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake — "You  could 
never  know  a  woman,  you  could  never  trust  her;  you 
could  not  even  trust  your  own  mother."  This  was  a 
hard  thing  for  any  man  at  all  to  have  said  in  his  life- 
time, and  yet  how  full  of  grim,  sad  truth  did  it  now 
appear?  .  .  .  The  kind  forgetfulness  of  his  choking 
bitterness  that  he  had  so  passionately  longed  for  would 
not  come  to  him.  .  .  .  The  dregs  of  his  heart  were  begin- 
ning to  turn  again  towards  thoughts  of  magnanimity 
as  they  had  already  done  in  the  first,  clear  spell  of 
thought  after  his  deed.  He  had  then  gone  to  gather 
sticks  for  the  old  woman,  a  kind  thing,  as  Jesus  might 
have  done  in  Nazareth.  .  .  .  The  change  of  the  sovereign 
was  in  his  hand  and  his  impulse  was  strong  upon  him. 
He  could  not  resist.  It  seemed  as  if  a  strong  magnet 
was  pulling  a  light  piece  of  steel.  ...  He  had  walked 
into  the  public  bar  of  "The  World's  End."  Around 
him  was  a  sea  of  faces,  laughing,  sneering,  drinking, 
sweating,  swearing,  spitting.  He  was  calling  for  a  drink 
for  himself  and  a  round  for  the  shop.  .  .  .  Now  the  sea 
of  faces  was  becoming  as  one  face.  And  there  was  a  look 
Upon  it  which  seemed  made  up  of  incredulity  and  con- 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     293 

tempt.  .  .  .  This  was  replaced  by  a  different  look  when 
the  pints  were  in  their  hands.  .  .  .  They  were  saying: 
"Good  health,  Mr.  Brennan  !"  with  a  sneer  in  their  tones 
and  a  smile  of  flattery  upon  those  lips  which  had  just 
now  been  vomiting  out  the  slime  of  their  minds. 

There  was  another  and  yet  another  round.  As  long  as 
he  could  remain  on  his  feet  he  remained  standing  drinks 
to  them.  There  was  a  longing  upon  him  to  be  doing  this 
thing.  And  beyond  it  was  the  guiding  desire  to  be  rid 
of  every  penny  of  the  sovereign  his  mother  had  given 
him  to  help  him  appear  as  a  gentleman  if  he  met  com- 
pany. .  .  .  Now  it  seemed  to  soil  him,  coming  as  it  did 
from  her.  Curious  that  feeling  after  all  she  had  done 
for  him,  and  she  his  mother.  But  it  would  not  leave 
him. 

The  drink  he  had  bought  was  fast  trickling  down  the 
many  throats  that  were  burning  to  receive  it.  The 
rumor  of  his  prodigality  was  spreading  abroad  through 
Garradrimna,  and  men  had  gone  into  the  highways  and 
the  byeways  to  call  their  friends  to  the  banquet.  Two 
tramps  on  their  way  to  the  "Workhouse  had  heard  of  it 
and  were  already  deep  in  their  pints.  Upon  John's 
right  hand,  arrived  as  if  by  magic,  stood  Shamesy 
Golliher,  and  upon  his  left  the  famous  figure  of  Padna 
Padna,  who  was  looking  up  into  his  face  with  admira- 
tion and  brightness  striving  hard  to  replace  the  stare  of 
vacancy  in  the  dimming  eyes.  As  he  drank  feverishly, 
fearful  of  losing  any,  Shamesy  Golliher  continuously 
ejaculated:  "Me  sweet  fellow,  John!  Me  sweet 
fellow!"  And  Padna  Padna  kept  speaking  to  himself 
of  the  grand  thing  it  was  that  there  was  one  decent 
fellow  left  in  the  world,  even  if  he  was  only  Nan  Byrne's 


294     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

son.  Around  John  Brennan  was  a  hum  of  flattery  es- 
sentially in  the  same  vein.  .  .  .  And  it  seemed  to  him 
that,  in  his  own  mind,  he  had  soared  far  beyond  them., 
.  .  .  Outwardly  he  was  drunk,  but  inwardly  he  knew 
himself  to  be  very  near  that  rapture  which  would  bring 
thoughts  of  Rebecca  as  he  staggered  home  alone  along 
the  dark  road. 

The  companions  of  his  Bacchic  night  had  begun  to 
drift  away  from  him.  Ten  o'clock  was  on  the  point  of 
striking,  and  he  was  in  such  a  condition  that  he  might 
be  upon  their  hands  at  any  moment.  They  did  not 
want  Walter  Clinton,  the  proprietor  of  "The  World's 
End,"  to  be  giving  any  of  them  the  job  of  taking  him 
home.  The  hour  struck  and  the  remnant  went  charging 
through  the  doorways  like  sheep  through  a  gap. 
Shamesy  Golliher  limped  out,  leading  Padna  Padna  by 
the  hand,  as  if  the  ancient  man  had  suddenly  become 
metamorphosed  into  his  second  childishness.  .  .  .  "The 
bloody -looking  idiot ! ' '  they  were  all  sniggering  to  one 
another.  "Wasn't  it  a  hell  of  a  pity  that  Ned  Brennan, 
his  father,  and  he  always  bowseying  for  drink  in  Mc- 
Dermott's  and  Brannagan's,  wasn't  in  'The  World's 
End'  to-night?" 

John  was  alone  amidst  the  dregs  of  the  feast.  Where 
the  spilt  drink  was  shining  on  the  counter  there  was  such 
a  sight  of  glasses  as  he  had  never  before  seen.  There 
were  empty  glasses  and  glasses  still  standing  with  half 
their  drink  in  them,  and  glasses  in  which  the  porter 
had  not  been  touched  so  drunk  had  everybody  been. 

Walter  Clinton  came  in  indignantly  and  said  that  it 
was  a  shame  for  him  to  be  in  such  a  state,  and  to  go 
home  out  of  that  at  once  before  the  peelers  got  a  hold 


THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS     295 

of  him.  .  .  .  And  he  went  out  with  difficulty  and  down 
the  old  road  of  the  elms  towards  his  mother's  house  in 
the  valley.  He  could  hear  the  hurrying,  heavy  feet 
of  those  he  had  entertained  so  lavishly  far  down  before 
him  on  the  road.  .  .  .  For  the  moment  he  was  happy. 
Before  his  burning  eyes  was  the  form  of  Rebecca  Kerr. 
Her  face  had  a  look  of  quiet  loveliness.  He  thought 
it  was  like  the  faces  of  the  Madonnas  in  Father 
O'Keeffe's  parlor.  .  .  .  "Rebecca!  Rebecca !"  he  called 
to  her  ever  in  the  agony  of  his  love.  ' '  Thy  hands,  dear 
Rebecca!"  .  .  .  She  was  not  soiled  now  by  any  earthly 
sin,  for  he  had  purified  her  through  the  miracle  of  blood. 
And  she  was  clean  like  the  night  wind. 

He  was  a  pitiable  sight  as  he  went  staggering  on, 
crying  out  this  ruined  girl's  name  to  the  night  silence 
of  the  lonely  places.  ...  At  last  he  fell  somewhere  in 
the  soft,  dewy  grass.  For  a  long  while  he  remained 
here — until  he  began  to  realize  that  his  vision  was  pass- 
ing with  the  decline  within  him  of  the  flame  by  which 
it  had  been  created.  The  winds  upon  his  face  and  hair 
were  cold,  and  it  seemed  that  he  was  lying  in  a  damp 
place.  His  eyes  sprang  open.  .  .  .  He  was  lying  by  the 
lakeside  and  at  the  place  where  he  had  murdered 
Ulick  Shannon. 

He  jumped  up  of  a  sudden,  for  his  fear  had  come 
back  to  him.  With  his  mouth  wide  open  and  a  clammy 
sweat  upon  his  brow,  he  started  to  run  across  what 
seemed  a  never-ending  grassy  space.  .  .  .  He  broke 
madly  through  fences  of  thorn  and  barbed  wire,  which 
tore  his  clothes  and  his  hands.  He  stumbled  across  fields 
of  tillage.  ...  At  last,  with  every  limb  shivering,  he 
came  near  his  mother's  door.  .  .  .  Presently  he  grew 


296     THE  VALLEY  OF  SQUINTING  WINDOWS 

coldly  conscious.  ...  He  could  hear  his  father  mutter- 
ing drunkenly  within.  He  came  nearer,  striving  hard 
to  steady  himself  and  walk  erect.  He  qiiickened  his  step 
to  further  maintain  his  pretense  of  sobriety.  His  foot 
tripped  against  something,  and  he  lurched  forward. 
He  was  caught  in  his  mother's  arms,  for,  at  the  sound 
of  his  approach,  she  had  opened  the  door  in  resigned 
and  mournful  expectation. 

"0  Jesus!"  she  said. 

There  were  two  of  them  now. 


THE  END 


^from  which  »  was  borrowed^ 


A    000  029  481     9 


